RomanoCentric Alternative Season 10
by tpel
Summary: You saw "Freefall". Now here's what REALLY happened. AU season 10, starting with the elevator scene. What might happen if Romano didn't die?
1. Default Chapter

Author's note: I was going to re-write the end of "Freefall" to give Romano a decent death scene. Then I said, "Screw it." If I'm going to re-write what happened, I'm gonna give myself what I, and hopefully some of you readers, really want: for Romano to not be dead. So, here it is. It's not a happy story. But, hey, he's still breathing at the end!  
  
*****  
  
Robert Romano sagged against the wall of the elevator as the doors closed. The doors formed a welcome barrier between himself and that thing out there, but he couldn't quite get the image of it out of his mind. Worse was the sound - thumpa-thumpa-thumpa - still vaguely audible even inside the elevator. The sound of rotors slashing at air merged with the sound of his own pulse hammering in his ears, just like it had that night. He felt himself falling again - that sick feeling of lightness as his racing heart expelled all the blood from his body. But this time, there was a wall to hold him up. Something solid. Feeling it behind him grounded him enough that he was able to focus on the elevator controls. Almost blindly, he punched the button that would take him down. Away. To safety.  
  
As the elevator descended, however, it seemed to shrink. Its walls were entirely too close together and there wasn't enough air inside to satisfy his rapid respiration. Some part of his mind clinically admonished him that there was plenty of air and that hyperventilating certainly wouldn't help matters. That part was easily overwhelmed by the rest of him which needed to be outside NOW, gulping fresh oxygen.  
  
The elevator plodded along, unaffected by Robert's urgency. 'Oh God -- What if the elevator stops and somebody gets on?' He knew that he would lose it then, though he wasn't quite sure what 'losing it' entailed - throwing up? passing out? crying? As long as he was by himself with nobody to lean on, he would do what he always did: press on. But if somebody familiar appeared right now and looked him in the eyes, he knew that he would fall apart. He would reach out for them like a lifeline. But it wouldn't be strong enough . . .  
  
This worry distracted him only briefly from his claustrophobia, as the elevator finally arrived on the ground floor. The moment between the elevator chime and the doors whooshing open seemed interminable. He was out of the elevator before the doors were fully open.  
  
Now, of course, he was surrounded by people. But none of them really looked at him or connected with him, so he regarded them as obstacles rather than as problematic saviors. He waded through the crowd near the elevator, then, as the crowd thinned in the ER, he sped up almost to a run. The damned door to the ambulance bay wouldn't open fast enough. Pounding on the button wouldn't help, but what the hell - it was something to do.  
  
Finally, he was free. Outside. It was safe to . . . what? Have a meltdown with ample oxygen and reasonable privacy? 'No,' he told himself, 'just ride it out; this isn't the first time.' He inhaled deeply and felt a twinge of pain in his side and a tightness across his chest. 'Calm down - you're not going to have a damn heart attack right in front of the ER.'  
  
After a minute or two the buzz of whirring rotors inside his head died down and the waves of panic began to subside. 'Auditory hallucinations - there's a good sign,' he mused sarcastically to himself. He became aware of people and vehicles nearby, and wanted to be away from them. He felt far too shaky to go back inside, but walked toward the building intending to lean against the wall and collect himself.  
  
Robert was a few feet away from the wall when he heard it - a loud popping sound overhead. He turned around and looked up to see an exploding fireball several stories above. Then the helicopter emerged from the explosion like something out of a nightmare . . . His nightmare. Flames engulfed its body, eerily illuminating every detail. The rotors spun erratically as the thing plummeted - sharp tongues of fire, cutting and burning their way toward him.  
  
He stood rooted to the spot. Moving was not just impossible, but inconceivable. Not breathing or blinking, he stared up at it, transfixed with horror.  
  
He was still staring at it seconds later when it hit the ground, 8 or 10 yards from where he stood. It was not conscious thought, but reflex, that finally brought his arm up to protect his face as the impact set off shockwaves and launched flying debris. He felt himself thrown up and back, and finally, mercifully, after his head connected with something hard, he felt nothing at all.  
  
A few hours later . . .  
  
Robert slowly became aware of familiar hospital sounds. His head was throbbing and his left shoulder ached. Out of habit he reached for his left arm, but found nothing there. Opening his eyes, he groaned softly as the light exacerbated his headache.  
  
'OK. I'm hospitalized. Again. Fuck. What happened?' As he contemplated this question, he realized that the room he was in was not a regular hospital room, but one of the exam rooms in the ER. With that, everything came back to him. Or enough, anyway. He closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to make the vision of the flaming chopper go away.  
  
The way his head felt, he knew that getting up was not the brightest thing to do. But he needed to move, to walk, to do something to distract himself. He got out of bed, and, when the room stopped spinning, he made his way out of the exam room and into the ER proper.  
  
The place was swamped. He could tell intuitively that this was the winding- down-period, not the high point of the crisis. Patients were in the hallways and in triage; doctors and nurses moved through the controlled chaos assisting them. Robert felt himself drawn toward the ambulance bay, almost against his will. He really didn't want to look at the twisted monstrosity that he knew lay outside, yet he continued in that direction. He got close enough that he could see the smoking ruin - the flames were out by now - through the glass doors, when someone distracted him, grabbing his arm and shoving a chart in front of him.  
  
It was one of the new residents - the useless one. What was his name? Morris. Robert wanted to tell him to go away, but he suddenly felt too dizzy and weak for coherent speech. There was a vacant chair nearby, so he sat in it. Morris continued talking, oblivious to the fact that his companion was on the verge of collapse. 'Yep. There's the future of medicine.' Robert almost giggled as he tried to focus on what the resident was saying.  
  
He quickly sobered as he realized what Morris wanted: Romano's signature on a procedure that was obviously inappropriate given the patient's condition. Explaining this to the fool seemed like an insurmountable task. He managed to shake his head (ow! bad idea), and horsely whisper something brilliant like "Nuh uh," while pointing toward the contra-indicating information on the chart. Unsurprisingly, Morris didn't get it. He continued talking at Romano, his voice not loud but grating.  
  
For the first time ever, Robert was glad to see Pratt. The younger doctor quickly set Morris straight on the procedure, and admonished him irritably, "Next time, find an attending who DOESN'T have a head injury to sign off for you."  
  
Since Pratt was taking care of the situation, Robert let his mind wander. His gaze found its way back to the glass doors, and settled there. He was vaguely aware of Pratt talking to him, but his brain felt paralyzed, sucked in by the view outside. Everything else faded out of his consciousness.  
  
"Dr. Romano, you have a concussion. You need to go back to the exam room and lie down." Pratt's tone was firm but not harsh.  
  
Sam approached, followed by Abby. "Oh, there he is," Sam said, then addressing Romano sharply, "Where do you think you're going? You're supposed to be in observation."  
  
Romano didn't respond, so Pratt tried again, louder, "Dr. Romano, can you hear me? You have to go back to observation."  
  
Nothing. His eyes were open, but vacant. He stared away from the others with a blank expression on his face. Finally, Abby walked around and crouched down so that her face was in Robert's line of vision, blocking his view of the doors. "Dr. Romano," she said gently, holding out her hand, "Come with me, OK?"  
  
Robert nodded almost imperceptibly, then accepted the hand she offered and pulled himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, causing Abby to look around for a wheelchair, then steadied himself. He didn't resist as she took his arm and led him slowly back toward the observation area.  
  
"He's altered and roaming. Can I put him in restraints?" Sam asked Pratt eagerly.  
  
Pratt was sure she was joking. Well, almost sure. "Wouldn't one restraint do? Heh heh. Nah, he'd kill us when he comes to."  
  
By the time Robert and Abby arrived back at the observation room, his mind had cleared a bit, but exhaustion was taking over. Lying down seemed like a really good idea. Robert sat on the bed and went to kick off his shoes. Then he realized that he wasn't wearing any, just socks underneath scrubs. He glanced around the room.  
  
"Your arm is over there on top of the cabinet, along with your lab coat and other stuff," Abby supplied. "We had to take it off to check if your shoulder was separated. It's not - just a sprain and some contusions."  
  
Robert nodded, then winced as he lay down. Abby handed him some ibuprofen, then a cup of water, saying, "Of course, we can't give you the good drugs on account of the concussion, but this should help."  
  
There was a knock at the door. Abby turned to see Sam poking her head in. Sam asked hurriedly, "You 'Doctor Abby' or 'Nurse Abby' now?"  
  
Abby grinned, looked at her watch, and responded, "Take your pick."  
  
Sam pleaded, "I've REALLY got to go home, so if you're covering . . ."  
  
"Nurse Abby it is!" Abby announced with mock-perkiness. She heard a soft laugh from behind her, and turned to find her patient with his eyes closed but a trace of a smirk on his lips.  
  
Sam waved and departed. Abby switched off the main room light, saying, "You know the drill - you can sleep, but I'm gonna come wake you up in a little while." She walked toward the door and was about to turn off the small light over the sink when a sound from the bed stopped her.  
  
"Uh, don't . . . uh . . ." Romano began awkwardly, then trailed off.  
  
"I'll just leave this one on, OK?" Abby offered. Robert nodded, the anxiety in his eyes diminishing.  
  
"Don't be crabby when I wake you," Abby tossed out playfully as she exited the room.  
  
Robert was appalled by the fact that the prospect of being alone in the dark with his own thoughts had caused him to panic. He was grateful that Abby had not asked him if he wanted her to stay. Mortified, he realized that he might have said "Yes." Still uneasy, he wasn't sure if he wanted to sleep. But it was a moot point; he was fading fast. He wondered vaguely why Abby was being nice to him, given that he generally treated her like shit.  
  
'Must be a chick thing,' was his last lucid thought as he drifted into fitful sleep.  
  
To be continued . . .  
  
***** Author's plea for help: TPTB gypped us out of a Romano-recovery arc. So, I want to give him one - this is the first chapter. However, I am aware of my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I'm good at dialogue and characterization, not so good at plot. So, I would appreciate your feedback and suggestions. Thank-you! 


	2. One week later

Author's Note: Thanks so much for your reviews!!! In response to some of your comments: No, this won't be a Cordano romance story, though I foresee the possibility of a Cordano-friendly ending . . . Instead, I will focus on Romano finding his place at work and developing relationships with the ER staff. For Robert, professional and personal recovery go hand in hand. Elizabeth will play an important role, even though she won't often be front- and-center.  
  
Although it worked for the first chapter, I've decided not to tell the whole story from Romano's perspective. One of the intriguing things about this character is that often the audience is NOT privy to what he is thinking; I don't want to lose that. So, much of the action will be seen through the eyes of other characters, with occasional direct glimpses into Robert's thoughts. Please let me know if the shifting perspectives become distracting.  
  
*******  
  
A week after the helicopter tragedy, Kerry Weaver found herself making a quick pass through the ER, just to make sure things were going smoothly. She peered in through an exam room window and observed Romano and Gallant assessing a patient. Without even looking at the patient's face or addressing him directly, Romano none-too-gently felt the man's abdomen. Then he barked some orders at Gallant and threw in an insult for good measure. Kerry kept on walking. She knew she could count on Michael Gallant to keep his cool, and that she had to pick her battles with Robert.  
  
In the past few days, Kerry had covered several shifts at her old post. With Carter and Chen out of the country, the ER had been short-staffed even before the accident. Then afterwards, Susan put in a request to temporarily cut back her hours in order to care for Chuck. With Romano out recovering from his injuries, they were perilously short on attendings.  
  
Robert was supposed to stay home for a week; he was back at work five days later. As far as Kerry could tell, his brush with death had done nothing to improve his belligerent attitude. When she thought about the little bastard abstractly, she felt sorry for him. He was probably at least as miserable as he tried to make everybody else. But when she had to deal with him, or watch him deal with others, he was so obnoxious that her sympathy evaporated.  
  
Momentarily, Kerry flashed back to the night following the crash, when she had checked on Robert in Observation. She had roused him from a nightmare and then sat for several minutes talking to him - ostensibly to fill him in on the status of the patients in the ER. 'We get along so much better when he's not fully conscious,' she thought wryly.  
  
Kerry arrived at the nearly-empty waiting area in time to see a cluster of children enter, accompanied by two women. One of the women carried a boy - kicking and screaming - and pulled another boy by the arm. The other woman led a disheveled-looking girl, while trying to herd three other children who seemed bent on bolting off in all directions. Kerry's mood sank as she went over to the Admit desk.  
  
"Brat pack's back," quipped Chuny.  
  
"Oh God," Abby sighed. The "brat pack" were repeat customers. A class of 8-to-10-year-olds with severe emotional and/or behavioral problems from a nearby school, they showed up at the ER frequently to get treatment for various injuries that they inflicted on each other. Most of the staff had worked on them at one time or another - and had the bruises and bite-marks to prove it. "Haven't they heard of the school nurse?" she complained.  
  
Chuny put in, "Probably don't have one. Or maybe she locks the door when she sees them coming."  
  
Kerry regarded the children, who were starting to squirm and tussle. "I have a meeting in half an hour. When's Susan on?"  
  
"Not 'till four," supplied Abby, "I think we should give them to Romano."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Abby replied brightly, "Because we hate him."  
  
Kerry allowed herself a moment of vindictive glee at this comment, but then her professionalism kicked in and she worried, "I don't know if that's such a great idea . . ."  
  
Abby interjected, "Actually, it worked pretty well the last time. The little monsters feared the hook. Kept 'em in line. Not sure if 'the hand' will have the same impact . . ."  
  
Just then Romano entered the Admit area. Walking by "chairs" he said in a low, slightly menacing voice, "I KNOW you're not messing around in my waiting room."  
  
The kids immediately stopped fighting. Some of them even tried to sit up straight in their chairs. Kerry let out a short laugh.  
  
"Hello Kerry," Romano purred coldly as he approached the desk, "Checking up on me?"  
  
"You know, Robert, re-hiring the people you fire is becoming a full time job." Kerry didn't want to get into a public snit with Romano, so she tamped down her irritation and kept her comment light.  
  
Without acknowledging the other staff clustered around the desk, Romano collected several charts from the rack and tucked them under his prosthesis. Then he blustered, "Yeah, well, I'm gonna be firing a few more if they don't get cracking. What the hell are you slackers waiting for? A written invitation?"  
  
Romano headed toward the largest exam room, gesturing with his head to indicate that the kids and their caretakers should follow.  
  
Chuny said, "I had them last time," backing away.  
  
Abby retorted, "I had HIM last." But it was too late. Chuny had disappeared into a trauma room. "Damn."  
  
"Come on," Kerry sighed, "I'll help get things started."  
  
Kerry and Abby entered the room to find Romano examining the boy with the most obvious injuries - a bloody nose and split lip. The teacher, Ms. Anders, sat next to the boy, restraining a girl in a bear-hug from behind and monitoring another boy who flitted around nearby. The other three children were a few feet away, with the teacher's assistant trying to keep them from touching anything or hurting each other. Kerry and Abby approached the latter group and began examining them.  
  
"What happened to your arm?" the boy Romano was treating asked bluntly.  
  
Irritated, Romano responded, "Miguel, what did I tell you the last time you asked me that?"  
  
"That it's none of my business."  
  
"Do you see any reason to believe that has changed?"  
  
Miguel apparently couldn't think of anything, but the other boy near them piped up, "My Mom says I have to change my underwear every day."  
  
Romano almost laughed. "Thanks for sharing."  
  
Miguel, after recovering from the hysterics produced by hearing the word "underwear," persisted with, "But I really wanna know!"  
  
Romano replied evenly, "Too bad."  
  
Miguel was about to say something else, but his teacher interjected, "You're being a pest, Miguel. Quit it."  
  
Fortunately, the boy was distracted by noticing that his lip had stopped bleeding. He went to test this discovery by poking at the area, but Romano stopped him with a stern look.  
  
"Hey! It stopped bleeding. Did that sting-ey stuff make it stop?"  
  
"Uh, no . . .," Romano began.  
  
Miguel charged along with, "Know what? If it don't stop then all the blood goes Whooosh, and then you're a zombie."  
  
Romano cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced by the boy's theory. "Your lip will be fine. You're finished. Go away." His tone was gruff, but less nasty than usual.  
  
When Miguel had vacated the chair, Romano turned to the girl that Ms. Anders had been restraining, and who now sat quietly next to her. "Are you going to let me examine you today, Kiesha?" he asked, a hint of humor in his voice.  
  
Kiesha didn't look at him, didn't respond at all for several seconds. Finally, she pressed the side of her fist against her chest, then moved it to another location a couple of inches away, then to another. Romano put on his stethoscope and listened to the girl's chest through her shirt, moving the end of the stethoscope in roughly the way that Kiesha had moved her hand.  
  
"OK," he said, "Can I look at your tummy now?"  
  
The girl folded her arms across her chest, becoming completely withdrawn and inaccessible.  
  
Romano offered, "Would you rather have a lady doctor look at you?"  
  
Kiesha didn't react. Romano looked over at her teacher, who shrugged and said, "Worth a shot."  
  
Romano addressed Kerry, who was observing him surreptitiously as she finished treating another child's abrasions. "As long as you're still loitering down here, wanna take a look at her?"  
  
Kerry nodded, "Fine," and led Kiesha and her teacher over to a curtained area in the corner. She started by asking the girl, "How are you feeling today, Kiesha?"  
  
No response. Not even a blink.  
  
"Has she been ill?" Kerry inquired.  
  
Ms. Anders supplied, "No, I don't think so. I just have a hunch that something's up with her. Something at home, you know?" The teacher was being surreptitious, but she gave Kerry a meaningful look. Kerry noticed the code in Keisha's chart that indicated unconfirmed suspicion of abuse.  
  
The child definitely looked unkempt, and there was a troubling dullness to her mocha-colored complexion. But there were no visible injuries or signs of physical distress, and hence, there was no justification for forcibly examining her without parental consent. The teacher had general consent forms for each child, permitting first-aid and emergency care. However, there was no real evidence that Kiesha needed either.  
  
Ms. Anders continued, "This place is probably the closest she's going to get to 'continuity of care'. But so far she hasn't let anybody really examine her."  
  
Unfortunately, Kerry proved to be no exception to this rule. Any time she tried to look under the girl's clothes or restrain her in any way, Kiesha began banging her head and lashing out with her arms and legs. Finally, Kerry settled for cursorily feeling through her clothes to rule out any broken bones.  
  
Meanwhile Romano was trying to treat the last patient - Zach, the boy who had made the "underwear" comment. According to the teacher's assistant, Zach's balance had recently become erratic, causing him to stagger for no apparent reason. To make a diagnosis, Romano (and Abby who had come over to help) needed to take the boy's temperature and draw blood to check the levels of the various psychoactive medications he was on.  
  
This was easier said than done. Zach literally never stayed still. Sitting him down was out of the question. The best one could hope for was to get him to hover within a confined area. Romano coerced him into keeping both of his hands on the back of a chair, thus limiting his range of motion. After several minutes of maneuvering, Abby finally got the temperature and blood sample.  
  
As Romano and Abby were finishing up with Zach, Kerry and the others emerged from the curtained area. The teacher, who had heard the commotion surrounding Zach, thanked Romano and Kerry, adding apologetically, "I know they can be a bit of a handful. It's the same way at school."  
  
Romano, on his way to leave the room, shrugged and commented, "It's nice to know that some people's jobs suck even more than mine does."  
  
'Oh God,' Kerry thought, 'I can't believe he just said that.' Before Kerry could intervene to smooth things over, Ms. Anders fixed Romano with a beatific smile - one that conveyed complete sincerity but exaggerated to comic effect - and said, "I love my job."  
  
Abby, writing notes in Zach's chart, asked, "Psych consult?" Of course, she meant the order for Zach, but she looked sideways at the teacher, barely keeping a straight face.  
  
Romano, following her gaze, smirked, "You bet." He walked out, ignoring Kerry's glare and Ms. Anders' bemused grin.  
  
Stepping outside the exam room into the comparative calm of the hallway was like dipping into a refreshing pool of quiet. Robert was relieved to be away from the noise and disorder. It was his second day back at work and he was growing impatient with the low-level anxiety that he continued to feel, especially when interacting with people. It was stupid. Sure, walking through the ambulance bay doors creeped him out (he took that route anyway out of spite, though he wasn't sure out of spite for what), and he didn't even want to think about going up to the roof. Fine, that all made sense. But this free-floating stress was senseless, and thus, infuriating.  
  
Doing the scut work was distracting, at least. And it made him feel somewhat less useless. At the same time, it was demeaning. If not for the behavior problems, any resident could have easily handled these cases. Bloody noses and ear infections were beneath him. And it was frustrating to not even be able to take a kid's temperature by himself. He could tell himself that taking temperatures was a nurse's job anyway, but it didn't help.  
  
Yelling at people helped a bit. Disturbingly, it seemed to be helping less and less as time wore on . . .  
  
As Robert was musing bitterly, he noticed a familiar head of curly red hair about 30 feet down the hallway. Seeing Elizabeth gave him an instant kick of joy, but that high passed quickly and he decided that he didn't really have the energy to deal with her right now. He ducked into the lounge. As he poured himself a cup of the toxic sludge that passed for coffee, he heard the lounge door open and close behind him.  
  
Elizabeth said, "Hello Robert."  
  
He turned toward her, nodding a greeting, "Elizabeth."  
  
"You didn't return my calls," the English surgeon pointed out neutrally.  
  
Robert shrugged, "Figured I'd run into you soon enough."  
  
Elizabeth was mildly annoyed. She had visited him briefly in the ER after the disaster last week. But he went home AMA before she was done treating the other accident victims. And she hadn't heard from him since. Taking in his tense posture and tired expression, she asked quietly, "How are you doing?"  
  
Typically, he responded, "Oh, fine. Just another day in the E-armpit."  
  
'This isn't getting anywhere,' Elizabeth thought. She glanced at her watch, trying to decide if she had the time to drag any genuine conversation out of Robert. He observed her looking at her watch, and said, "You missing your 'coffee break'?" enunciating the last words in a lewd tone.  
  
"Grow up," she spat, turning on her heel to walk away. Yes, genuine conversation would definitely have to wait - until she got over the urge to slap him.  
  
"Elizabeth, wait, wait," Robert began, "I didn't mean to . . ."  
  
She cut him off with, "What? You didn't mean to make crude insinuations? You didn't mean to mock my affair with Dorsett?"  
  
"No, I meant to do that," he admitted with a trace of a mischievous smile, "But I didn't mean to piss you off enough to make you leave."  
  
"Well, that's very sweet of you," Elizabeth countered, "excuse me if I don't feel like staying around while you revel in my humiliation."  
  
"Uh, Lizzie, what are you talking about?" Robert asked, puzzled. "Granted, he doesn't seem like the sharpest tool in the shed. But I don't see what's humiliating about you getting your groove on with the boy-toy."  
  
"Oh, I thought you knew. I thought everybody knew. The 'boy-toy' is married. I didn't even suspect it until Jacy took a call from his wife in the middle of surgery." Elizabeth's cheeks colored, remembering that moment.  
  
The smarminess faded from Robert's demeanor, and he said seriously, "Wow. That's asshole-ish even by my standards. What a . . ." He trailed off, looking for the right word.  
  
"Abby suggested 'wanker'," Elizabeth supplied helpfully.  
  
"I was gonna go with 'prick', but that'll do."  
  
The two doctors paused for a moment in companionable silence. Then Robert said, "So, I guess this means I don't have to be nice to him."  
  
"Was there ever any risk of that happening?" Elizabeth teased.  
  
"Uh, no. But I was trying to be mature about it. I wasn't going to torture him for going out with you."  
  
"How big of you," Elizabeth replied sarcastically. Seeing the sad look in his eyes, she immediately regretted this.  
  
He continued quietly, "I know you need to get on with your life, and I don't want to get in your way."  
  
"Robert, you know you're not in my way. I care about what happens to you . . ."  
  
"I mean romantically," he interrupted. "I'm just saying that you don't have to worry any more about me pulling a 'Benton' on the guys you date."  
  
For some reason, Elizabeth found this terribly sad. The man who'd had a crush on her for six years was now assuring her that he wouldn't interfere if she dated other people. She should feel relieved. By any other standard he was exhibiting healthy adult behavior. But, coming from Robert, it seemed wrong - like he was giving up on yet another thing that used to be important to him.  
  
Elizabeth didn't know how to respond, so she turned to humor. "Of course, now I'm not dating him any more, so he's fair game. If you do something evil to him, can I watch?"  
  
"Heh. Sure," Robert replied, flashing a grin. Then he became somber again, "Ah, who am I kidding? I don't have any power over Dorsett. If he knew I had it in for him, he'd probably just laugh. What am I gonna do - let the air out of his tires?"  
  
"I've thought about doing that," Elizabeth said mock-sheepishly, trying to lighten the mood, "Come on. Let's go get some decent coffee and conspire against him."  
  
"No, thanks," Robert replied, softly but firmly, "I'm not really up for being sociable." Then, making his way to the exit, he added, "See you around."  
  
After he left, Elizabeth stood there perplexed. This was by no means the first time that Robert had pushed her away. This time, however, his distancing himself from her seemed so deliberate, so final. He wasn't angry, and he wasn't trying to make HER angry. He was just walking away, quietly closing - not slamming - the door behind him. Elizabeth had no idea what, if anything, she should do about this.  
  
*****  
  
To be continued . . .  
  
I'm planning on about 12 chapters. The first 3 or 4 are kind of depressing, but then things start looking up - I promise! Next chapter: the Pratt meeting. 


	3. Pratt Roast

Tuesday . . .  
  
As she arrived at County, Susan observed the crowded triage area. It was almost three weeks since the disaster, and things were getting back to normal. This fact, in itself, struck her as bizarre. 'Don't these people realize that there was incredible carnage in the very place where they now stand smoking their cigarettes or waiting for cabs? But what can you do? You have to go on living your life. You can't constantly dwell on the fact that it can be cut short in an instant for no reason.'  
  
The vivid reminder of the uncertainty of it all did help Susan put one thing in perspective. The morning of the crash, she had been leaning toward ending her relationship with Chuck. He was fun; he was comfortable; but wasn't there more to love than that? His suggestion that they might as well settle for each other had made it clear to her that she didn't want to "settle" for anyone.  
  
Then he was dead, or so she thought, and she realized how much of a loss that was. He was her drinking buddy and her partner for restroom trysts. But he also brought her coffee in bed, consoled her after Ben's suicide, and really listened to her worries about work, about little Susie, about everything. He had a wicked sense of humor, without having a wicked bone in his body. He made her happy, and she made him happy. "Settling" for that was like settling for winning the lottery.  
  
Things at home were good. Things at work were not quite so blissful. Dr. Romano's behavior had gone from bad to, well, bad anyway, since the crash. Susan recalled a time long ago when he used to be funny. Pee-in-your-pants- I-can't-believe-I'm-laughing-at-this-I'm-going-to-hell funny. Back then, she saw him infrequently. He would swoop in from his office upstairs, save the day, and verbally castrate all the doctors who thought they were hot shit.  
  
Since taking over the ER, he acted like he was trying to be funny or clever, but mostly he wasn't - he was just cruel. Lately, he had dropped even the pretense of humor. He was nasty, plain and simple, toward the doctors and nurses, and was often callous and condescending toward patients. Some of the med students managed to escape his abuse by being beneath his notice.  
  
There were three relatively positive developments on this front. First, Romano was being somewhat less vicious toward Abby, since, as he put it, "she's no longer impersonating a surgeon." Second, Susan noticed that his cruelty was becoming more reactive than active. A few months ago he would prowl the halls of the department looking for people on whom to vent his rage. Now he kept more to himself, only spewing venom on those who demanded his attention in some way. Of course, since he was the boss, few people could avoid doing so.  
  
Third, Susan herself still seemed to be exempt from Romano's wrath. He was grouchy toward her, but she detected an underlying current of respect. And, once in a great while, she could tease out his latent sense of humor. Susan didn't know what it was that made her special, but she had to admit that the fact that he granted her this status did endear him to her a bit. She smiled, recalling how she had berated Frank for goading Romano into going up to the roof before the crash:  
  
"Nice, Frank. The man's got a boatload of personality defects, and you've got to pick on the one that's really not his fault."  
  
"Oh, please. Like he wouldn't do the same thing to somebody else."  
  
"Yeah, but he's an amoral asshole. You don't want to be . . . Oh, wait - too late!"  
  
Today things were a lot quieter than usual, since Romano was obviously under the weather. 'More snarling, less screaming,' Susan thought, smirking. He had brushed off Susan's concern earlier in the day; they were busy and he seemed annoyed by her attention. Now a lull was setting in. She approached him as he stood behind the desk working at the computer. His cough had "Flu" written all over it.  
  
"It's a bummer that the vaccine isn't 100% effective," Susan said, trying to be sympathetic without mothering, "but it'll probably at least make it go away faster."  
  
Romano looked away awkwardly.  
  
"Oh, no," she continued, "Don't tell me you didn't get a flu shot."  
  
He shrugged, trying to seem intent on what he was doing.  
  
"Did you just MISS the massive public health campaign? You work in a hospital emergency department! How can you not get a flu shot? Look - there's a sign on the door reminding all health care workers to get one. And - hey! - there's another sign. They're freakin' everywhere!"  
  
"I never get the flu," Romano protested weakly.  
  
"That's because you haven't been working in the ER up 'till now." Gesturing toward the patients in triage, she went on, "We clean them up, then we bag 'em so they can't breathe on you guys upstairs. Down here is where the germs come out to play. It's worse than a day-care center."  
  
Susan was briefly distracted by Neela and Gallant, who wanted her opinion and signature on something. She turned back to Romano, ready to continue her rant.  
  
He cut her off in a strained voice, "How about we pretend we've already established that I'm an idiot, and you leave me alone, OK?"  
  
Susan broke into a smile. He really did sound pathetic, and it was no fun mocking him if he wasn't going to fight back. "Heh. OK. Here's me, dialing down my inner bitch. Go home. You're useless here."  
  
"That was less bitchy, how?" Romano replied, finally working up a trace of a grin.  
  
Susan laughed. "I meant that you can't treat patients without infecting them and thus causing more work for us in the long run. So you might as well go home and rest. When are you off? I'll get somebody to cover."  
  
"Three."  
  
"You do know that was an hour and twenty minutes ago, right?"  
  
Romano groused, "Yes, I know. I have a virus, not brain damage. There's just a few more things I want to . . ." He broke off coughing and had trouble catching his breath.  
  
Susan made a flashing neon sign gesture with her hands, "GO. HOME."  
  
Romano pointedly ignored her.  
  
"If you don't go home, I'm going to admit you," she threatened.  
  
He waved her away dismissively.  
  
"I'm starting a chart . . ."  
  
"You're getting on my nerves, Lewis."  
  
"Let's see, coughing, temperature . . .," Susan reached across the desk to feel his forehead. She had barely touched him, when he pulled his head away suddenly. At the same time, his Utah arm jerked upward, slamming forcefully into the underside of the desk. Susan was startled; Romano's eyes went wide and he looked shaken.  
  
He sighed, "You win. I'm going."  
  
"You know, Robert, maybe I should check you out first . . .," Susan began.  
  
"Too late," Romano called over his shoulder as he headed to his locker to get his coat, "You just missed me."  
  
*****  
  
Friday . . .  
  
"Welcome back, Dr. Romano," said Jerry with a slightly nervous grin, "I wasn't sure if we'd be seeing you today."  
  
Robert grunted in response. He scanned the triage area and muttered, "For this I scraped myself up off the bathroom floor?"  
  
Jerry continued, "Dr. Weaver and Dr. Anspaugh wanted to confirm that you're here today for the meetings. Should I . . ."  
  
"I'm here, aren't I? Confirm away," Romano interrupted with a glare.  
  
Pratt walked over to the board, handing off patients to Gallant, ". . . Mr. Weams in curtain one is ready for dispo; Ramirez in three, still waiting on a CBC. Sorry 'bout dumping all this on you, but I gotta go to that damn meeting with Anspaugh . . ."  
  
"You sure you don't want to say your goodbyes first?" Romano inquired nastily. Pratt sniffed and turned to leave without replying to the jab. Romano continued to his retreating back, "Hey, I didn't get to fire you on Thanksgiving. I guess the week before Christmas will have to do."  
  
After Romano stalked away, Gallant wondered aloud, "Does he even HAVE a soul?"  
  
*****  
  
A little later, Robert was in the elevator headed up to Anspaugh's office, contemplating the upcoming Pratt-roast. Thinking of it in those terms caused him a moment of malicious pleasure. And then . . . it was gone. He just wanted the meeting to be over, and Pratt to be out of his hair for good. 'What the hell is wrong with me? I used to be able to savor the torments I inflicted on people.'  
  
Part of the problem was that he didn't really believe that Pratt would be fired. The tone of Anspaugh's last e-mail, and the fact that Kerry refused to suspend Pratt pending the meeting, told Robert that they were not ready to give the resident the boot just yet. Fair enough. If necessary, he would settle for a suspension and formal reprimand now. Then, when Pratt screwed up again, which was sure to happen in short order, he could easily terminate him. In some ways, this latter scenario was even more appealing than a quick dismissal. It would draw out the torture for Pratt, and would give Romano a reason to harass Kerry for not firing him instantly.  
  
Intellectually, Robert could see the appeal of this course of events, but instead of eagerly anticipating it, he just felt tired. He remembered being curled up in bed Wednesday night, having thrown up his last dose of ibuprofen, praying for oblivion. Sleep wouldn't come, at least not for long. As soon as he nodded off he would be hit by dreams that left him wide awake and shaking - again and again. Now he felt a little better physically; his fever was down to a manageable level and he could keep down toast, coffee and Advil. But he still wasn't sleeping much and, emotionally, he still just wanted everything to stop.  
  
'Tough shit,' he told himself, 'the world doesn't stop just because you want to get off.' Thus admonished, he got off the elevator and headed for Donald's office. He knocked, then entered to find Anspaugh and Pratt chatting a bit stiffly. Kerry wasn't there; Robert hadn't been sure whether she was planning on attending.  
  
"Robert, have a seat," Donald Anspaugh greeted him, "Let's get this over with." Then, addressing Pratt, he continued, "Dr. Pratt, as you know, Dr. Romano has compiled a rather hefty file of charges against you. What do you have to say for yourself?"  
  
"Well," Pratt began, not looking at Romano, "Dr. Romano and I don't always see eye to eye on things . . ." Robert started to speak, but Anspaugh silenced him with an upraised hand, "You'll get your turn." Pratt continued, "I guess I've had a few conflicts with other departments lately . . . nothing I would characterize as major, you know, just stepping on each other's toes."  
  
"True, no single incident stands out as significant," Anspaugh responded, "yet the sheer quantity of charges here would be enough to warrant a suspension or worse."  
  
Romano smirked.  
  
Anspaugh went on, "However, I think we can do without such punitive measures."  
  
Romano stopped smirking.  
  
"I was quite impressed with your performance on Thanksgiving during the crisis. I think you are an asset to the emergency department. As for these issues," Anspaugh waved toward the bulging file Romano had given him, "part of your job as a resident is to learn. And sometimes the toughest thing to learn is that people in other departments are usually working just as hard as you are. It is in your best interest to get along with them. Understood?"  
  
Pratt, comprehending that he had just dodged a bullet, nodded, "Yes, sir."  
  
"Good. You can go back to work now."  
  
As soon as the door closed behind Pratt, Romano, who had been silently fuming, burst out with, "What the hell was that? What does he have to do to get disciplined? Take a whiz in your chair?"  
  
"What I'm doing is being careful," Anapaugh answered evenly. "I'm sure you've heard the story of the boy who cried wolf? You've had conflicts with nearly everybody lately, and I don't even want to count the number of people you've tried to fire. This pile of papers you gave me could represent a problem on Dr. Pratt's part, or it could just be another one of your vendettas. Frankly, I'm not willing to sacrifice his career on your say-so."  
  
"You're not going to pay attention to the assessment of his immediate supervisor?!?" Romano sputtered.  
  
"I suspect that if Dr. Pratt's attitude problem were as serious as you make it out to be I would be hearing complaints from others, not just from you. But I will take your observations under advisement." Anspaugh's tone indicated that, as far as he was concerned, the discussion was over.  
  
Romano opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. His expression went from anger to disgust, to something darker. Finally, he just threw up his hand, speechless with frustration, and turned to leave. He stopped a few feet from the door, went back and slapped a file folder onto Anspaugh's desk without looking at him, then stormed out.  
  
*****  
  
3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . the elevator descended toward the ER. Romano got out, steaming mad. Naturally, the first person he saw was Pratt, who tried to say something to him. "Don't even," Romano cut him off in a deadly quiet tone. There was something unhinged about the expression in Romano's eyes; it was enough to make Pratt back off immediately.  
  
The next two hours were like a repeat of Romano's first day as ER chief. He lashed out at everybody he met, throwing racist barbs, insults, whatever would offend the most. However, by now the ER staff had experience dealing with Romano-tantrums, and were better equipped to handle him. Susan and Gallant took point, absorbing much of his rage and serving as a buffer between him and the rest of the staff and the patients. Susan reminded herself to thank Gallant for "taking one for the team." Pratt made himself scarce.  
  
After a couple of hours, Romano started to wind down. He just didn't have the energy to keep up a tirade for a whole shift any more. The others knew he was running out of steam when he started bitching at Sam about the holiday music and decorations, saying something lame like, "This is supposed to be a workplace, not a winter wonderland!"  
  
When it seemed like the worst was over, Neela tentatively approached Romano. Normally he found her quiet intelligence refreshing. Right now he was annoyed by her apparent timidity. "What do you want?" he growled.  
  
She flinched, but handed him a manila envelope, saying, "This is for you."  
  
Romano impatiently tore open the envelope, reached inside, and pulled out a big piece of construction paper, folded in half twice. Opening it, he saw a riot of crayon markings, some of them resembling pictures, some not so much. Amidst the childish drawings, an adult hand had written, "Dr. Romano, Get Well Soon - Donna Anders' class." Some of the students' names were visible, but since they tended to write and draw on top of each other's work, most were illegible.  
  
"They were here on Wednesday for a re-check on Zachary's bloodwork," Neela explained, "Dr. Lewis told them that you were out sick.  
  
Looking at the card, Romano's face slowly warmed with amusement. He chuckled softly, some of the angry tension fading from his posture. Neela, encouraged by this reaction, continued in a slightly sheepish tone, as if she expected that some people might disagree with her assessment, "Zach's a charming little fellow." Then she added wryly, "Sharp elbows, though."  
  
Turning on the men nearby, Romano said mockingly, "You heroes made NEELA restrain him?"  
  
"I wasn't here," Gallant spoke up defensively. Malik looked away. Lester looked clueless.  
  
Susan, overhearing the discussion, approached saying, "I told Morris to get the kid ready for the blood draw. He delegated. Chivalry is dead." Then, after a beat, she added, "The teacher asked for you by name." Grinning, she teased Romano in a sing-song voice, "You've got regulars . . ."  
  
"What are you, twelve?" Romano shot back. Susan's infectious smile was making it hard for him to maintain his dour expression. "Go away, Lewis."  
  
*****  
  
Meanwhile, upstairs . . .  
  
Donald Anspaugh sat down across from Kerry Weaver, pleased that they had a few minutes to talk before the Department Heads' meeting. Kerry was reading his memo about the resolution to the Pratt situation. She looked up, saying, "You didn't even give him a formal reprimand? How did Robert take that?"  
  
"Not well, as you might guess. Though, actually, I'm surprised he didn't put up more of a fight. He dropped the ER budget report on my desk before stomping off. I'd be surprised if he shows up at the meeting."  
  
Kerry spoke diplomatically, "Robert's desire to get rid of Pratt is undoubtedly more personal than professional. And, of course, disciplinary decisions are within your prerogative. But I'm concerned about the message this sends. Dr. Pratt does have a history of disregarding the orders of his superiors. I recall an incident last year, when he resuscitated a man whom Dr. Kaysen and the chief resident had declared dead. And, just recently, he seemed to think that he could pick and choose which attending he reports to . . ."  
  
"Are you saying Robert is RIGHT about him?"  
  
"No, not exactly. I think Dr. Pratt has potential, and I would like to keep him on staff. But overreacting is more Robert's style than outright fabrication."  
  
"Point taken," Donald sighed. "Of course, the more serious personnel concern down there is Romano himself. I'm not sure how long we can let this go on. The man's a menace, Kerry. He's not getting any better. It might be time to cut our losses."  
  
Kerry's expression grew pensive as various department heads began arriving for the meeting. She marveled at the difference between herself and Dr. Anspaugh. Donald and Robert had worked together for years, apparently getting along reasonably well. In fact, Anspaugh was probably one of very few people at the hospital who had never been screwed by Robert. Yet he seemed to have lost all patience with his colleague and had no compunction against getting rid of him. His attitude struck Kerry as very . . . surgical: if you can't cure it, cut it out. Kerry, on the other hand, had every reason in the world to want to sack Romano. Yet she couldn't quite bring herself to give up on him just yet . . .  
  
Author's Note: I started writing this fic because I was mad at the way TPTB disposed of my favorite character. Now I'm mad at them for transforming the OTHER characters into callous jerks who can't be bothered going to a memorial service for a colleague. Suffice it to say, I won't be portraying them like that! Reviews make me happy . . . 


	4. Early January Freeze

In what was becoming a familiar pose, Robert Romano and Gregory Pratt stood almost toe to toe, voices raised, arguing about a patient. This time it was an elderly woman with diabetes and moderate kidney failure.  
  
"All I'm saying is, with aggressive treatment there's a chance she'll substantially regain kidney function," Pratt argued.  
  
"Yeah, and a much higher chance that she'll be no better off than before you started, maybe worse, and we'll be out thousands of dollars."  
  
"So, only rich real estate developers are worth saving, huh?" Pratt hoped his reference to the now-incinerated Mr. Westbrook would get a reaction out of Romano.  
  
All it did was annoy the other doctor further. "You know what? Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't care what you think. Antibiotics for the infection and refer her to the diabetes clinic. That's it."  
  
"She's my patient. You can't just . . ." Pratt began.  
  
"Uh, yeah, I can," Romano cut him off. "You are a resident. I may be stuck with you, but you're stuck with me too. And in case you're thinking about trying an end-run around me, I'd bet dollars to donuts that Kovac goes for conservative treatment too. Wanna wait an hour and try to get it by Dr. Lewis?"  
  
"Yeah, maybe I will," Pratt retorted.  
  
"That was sarcasm, Goofus," Romano sneered, "You don't get to shop your cases around until you can find an attending whose opinion you like!"  
  
Pratt really wanted to deck the little troll. Three factors combined to stay his hand: (1) Romano was his boss, (2) Romano was a lot smaller than him, and (3) Romano had only one arm. Pratt was pretty sure that if only two of the three were true, that would not be enough to keep him from smacking that superior smirk off of his so-called superior's face. As it was, he was frustrated. "Screw this," he mumbled, turning and stalking off.  
  
Romano felt more relieved than pleased at Pratt's retreat, and that bothered him. Just seeing Pratt pissed him off, and he relished the opportunity to slap him down - hard. However, if their confrontations went on too long, Robert found them hard to tolerate. Having Pratt's face inside his personal space made him uncomfortable. He felt a strong desire to step back, away from the other man. But there was no fucking way he would let Pratt think he was backing down.  
  
Fighting with the younger man sapped his energy, and lately he had none to spare. 'Geez, I'm getting old,' he mocked himself, heading to the lounge for a dose of caffeine (it was best to use the hideous coffee medicinally, rather than as a beverage). Robert knew that he was consuming far too much coffee, as poor compensation for far too little sleep, but he couldn't bring himself to care very much about that. 'It's not like I have to stay clear to perform an ex-lap,' he mused bitterly.  
  
*****  
  
Yelling at Pratt turned out to be the high point of a day that just got worse and worse. Supervising Abby and Lester as they debrided the pressure sores on the backside of a morbidly obese man made Robert grateful he'd skipped lunch. Then he had to tell the mother of a three-year-old who drank bleach that, yes, her son would survive, but that the damage to his esophagus and stomach was extensive and might not be fully correctable. He'd meant to be a bit tough on her - how hard was it to remember to keep cleaning supplies in a safe place? But then she started crying and he wished he had just shut up.  
  
Five hours into his shift, Robert was feeling exhausted and shakey. He was having trouble suppressing the anxiety and despair that seemed to lurk always at the edges of his awareness. The fatigue was also making it hard for him to concentrate. As a result, Gallant caught him prescribing a patient the wrong dosage of prednisone. Naturally, the hapless resident received some choice insults for his troubles.  
  
After correcting the error, Robert went off to sit in a quiet exam room for a little while, hoping to clear his head. That lasted about a minute. Quiet was always in short supply in the ER, and, anyway, sitting still was not something he was good at. Buzzing by the front desk, he heard the next call come in: motorcycle vs. SUV, with several cars taken along as collateral damage.  
  
Robert, along with Abby, Neela, and Morris, got the motorcycle driver. He was a young guy who had the brains to wear a helmet, and thus, his brain was still mostly intact. Unfortunately, he had massive internal injuries with bleeding from multiple sites. Looking at the kid, Robert knew that if he were in an OR right now he would have a fighting chance at survival. Not a good chance - maybe 10% - but if the surgeons were quick enough at repairing the damage and tying off the bleeders, and no other complications arose, he could make it. Robert quickly dismissed the urge to cut him open and start stitching right there. With two hands it would be foolhardy; with one it would be murder.  
  
The patient was far too unstable to move, and the chances of stabilizing him were negligible. He was going to die. Of course, they couldn't just let that happen. They had to go through the motions of treating him, just in case. In Robert's mind this process took on a surreal quality. The young man crashed; they got him back; he crashed again. He bled; they pumped in more blood; he bled faster. They shocked him; he twitched in a semblance of animation; he was still. Epi . . . Charge . . . Clear . . . Again . . . Again . . . Their futile dance seemed to go on forever. When Robert couldn't stand it any more he declared the boy dead.  
  
Moments later, the biker's passenger arrived. She was maybe twenty, baby- faced, with long blond hair spilling out from under a bright red helmet. And dark red blood spilling from everywhere else. Having been thrown clear of the pile-up, she was in somewhat better shape than her boyfriend. This one could be saved.  
  
They needed to act fast. Robert tried to force his fuzzy mind to spit out the steps that would keep the girl among the living. But his brain wouldn't cooperate. There was too much to wade through: too many options, too many ways things could go wrong, too much noise and stress clouding his thoughts . . .  
  
*** 'Did she see the truck coming? Bright light then nothing is ever the same again. She looks like Lucy . . .' *** 'Dammit this isn't helping!' He needed to focus . . . to . . .  
  
Abby had noticed that something was not right with Dr. Romano while they were working on the driver. Normally clear and piercing, Romano's voice had become quieter and quieter as they went through the procedures. She had to look at the clock to ascertain the time-of-death that he mumbled. Then the passenger was brought in, and he seemed to shut down completely. He was supposed to be running the trauma, but he was just staring at the girl, not saying anything.  
  
Abby looked to Morris. As a resident, he should have been jumping in, getting things started. But, apparently, he was content to wait for Romano while their patient bled. Abby was not so sanguine. She looked over at Neela, who seemed a little lost, glancing around for direction.  
  
"Dr. Romano," Abby prompted, "Dr. Romano?" When Romano didn't respond, Abby started doing the obvious things, such as evaluating the patient's airway and checking her pupils. She announced her findings as she went, hoping this would snap the doctor out of his trance.  
  
Neela followed Abby's lead, presenting the patient's injuries as if it were a teaching case, "Compound fracture to the left femur with swelling and deformity, breath sounds decreased on the right, possible pneumothorax. Prep for thoracostomy?"  
  
Romano didn't answer, so Neela walked over so that she was face to face with him and repeated her question. Romano tuned in enough to answer affirmatively. "Starting O2 by mask and prepping the chest," Neela continued, then asked, "What size needle?"  
  
Romano seemed to be contemplating Neela's question, but he wasn't replying quickly enough, so Abby prompted, "12 gauge? 14 gauge?"  
  
"Fourteen," Romano said softly.  
  
"She's bradying down, BP and pulse-ox falling," Abby warned. Then she turned on Morris and snapped, "Are you gonna DO something?"  
  
Morris answered uncertainly, "Uh, intubate?"  
  
"You're asking ME?" Abby shot back. As Morris fumbled with the intubation tray, Abby came to the conclusion that they were out of their depth. She and Neela had reached the limits of their expertise as med students. They needed help and guidance. And they weren't going to get it from either of the men in the room.  
  
"I'm going to find somebody to assist," Abby called out, hurrying from the room. She came back moments later with Dr. Kovac in tow.  
  
Seeing the haunted expression on Romano's face, Luka immediately took over running the trauma. He didn't push the older man aside or ask him any questions; he just worked around him. After a few minutes, things were under control. Romano revived enough to assist minimally by bagging the patient. When the girl sufficiently stable, Romano took off without comment. He walked quickly out of the room, toward the exit.  
  
Having experienced true human depravity first-hand, Luka could never quite take seriously the notion that Romano was some kind of moral monster. Nonetheless, he couldn't say he liked the nasty little man. Yet, now, he felt a sort of helpless kinship with him. He guessed that he might have some understanding of what Romano was going through, but he had no idea how to help. Seeing the other doctor heading outside, Luka thought sadly, 'He's not coming back.'  
  
*****  
  
Luka was wrong. Romano was back twenty minutes later. He finished out his shift, avoiding traumas and running the board in an uncharacteristically subdued manner. When his shift was done, he went into the lounge and sat quietly on the couch, waiting to pay the piper.  
  
A short time later, Susan and Luka entered the lounge. Luka and Abby had filled Susan in on what happened. She was not relishing the upcoming discussion. She noticed Lester sitting with Alex near the door, messing around over a chess board. She flashed back nostalgically to an image of Mark and Doug playing chess in the lounge. She remembered with a smile that their game didn't proceed very well, since Doug had the attention span of a flea. 'Different lounge, different people,' she mused, as she asked the pair to relocate their game elsewhere.  
  
Romano was slumped on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked up as Susan and Luka approached, and asked bitterly, "You finished tattling to Weaver?"  
  
Susan rolled her eyes, "Have a little faith in your colleagues, huh?"  
  
"Please don't tell me this is an intervention," he shot back with a sneer.  
  
Susan smirked as she and Luka sat down across from Romano. Then, becoming serious, she asked, "What happened?"  
  
"He was there," Romano nodded toward Kovac, "why don't you ask him?"  
  
"I know what I saw," Luka responded. Then he and Susan waited quietly for Romano to get past his defensiveness and give them a real answer.  
  
Eventually, Romano said simply, "I froze." He looked away from the other two doctors.  
  
"It happens," Susan put in gently, trying to prompt Romano to elaborate a bit on his two-word explanation.  
  
"Not to me it doesn't," Romano snapped.  
  
Susan could hear the strain in his voice, but she persisted, "Do you know why it happened? Was it something about the case?"  
  
Romano shrugged. Susan and Luka waited.  
  
Finally, Romano admitted, "I haven't been sleeping. It's catching up with me." He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, after a moment he added in a dejected whisper, "The only thing I can do is give orders, and now I can't even do that."  
  
None of them were under the illusion that he was talking about simple insomnia. Susan noted how unhealthy Robert looked. His complexion matched the light gray in his beard, and he had lost weight. He seemed to be fighting to keep his emotions under control.  
  
Romano looked back at the others and saw them watching him, then he stared down into his coffee. Trying to end the awkward silence he spat, "What do you want me to say, 'I fucked up. I'm sorry.'?"  
  
"Not good enough," Susan replied.  
  
Romano looked up sharply at her no-nonsense tone. Susan continued, "We need a plan."  
  
"What kind of a plan," Romano asked, wary, putting down his cup.  
  
If it was anybody else, Susan would have suggested he take some time off to get himself together. But instinct told her that Romano needed to work like he needed to breathe. So, she improvised, "You need to do what you can to treat this problem. Meanwhile, make sure you have some kind of back- up nearby when you go into a trauma - one of us, or at least a competent resident like Gallant." Susan almost added "or Pratt", but thought better of it. She wasn't sure Romano could cope with the thought of Pratt bailing him out. "Sound reasonable?"  
  
Romano nodded meekly, "OK." Then he leaned back, resting the back of his head on the top of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and laid his hand across his face as if to keep out the rest of the world.  
  
Seeing Robert looking so defeated, Susan stifled an irrational impulse to give him a quick hug. 'He would SO hate that,' she thought, smiling ruefully. Instead, she continued matter-of-factly, "OK then. I'll check the schedules. We'll try to make it so that Dr. Kovac or I overlap with you as much as possible." With that, she got up to leave. Luka nodded sympathetically and followed suit.  
  
Hearing Luka and Susan get up, Romano asked wearily from behind his hand, "Why are you doing this? It's not your problem."  
  
In the pause before they replied, he opened his eyes and looked up to see them standing over him - Luka on the left, Susan on the right. *** Rotors spinning overhead -- 'Do we have the arm?' 'No, don't clamp it' 'What blood type are you?' ***  
  
"Because it is the right thing to do," Luka answered seriously.  
  
"Nah, we just live for extra work," Susan added, grinning over her shoulder at Romano as she and Luka exited the lounge.  
  
*****  
  
Several days later . . . An e-mail exchange:  
  
To: deraad@ucms.edu From: RRocket@aol.com  
  
Karl, Having trouble sleeping. I've tried the usual suspects. Anything you can recommend? -- Romano  
  
*****  
  
To: RRocket@aol.com From: deraad@ucms.edu  
  
Hi Robert, You would need to come see me to discuss meds you've been on since the surgery, symptoms, etc. I've got some time open Friday afternoon. Or, if you don't want to be seen with me, you can come to my house for lunch on Saturday ;-) Karl  
  
*****  
  
To: deraad@ucms.edu From: RRocket@aol.com  
  
Fine. Saturday. But I'm not going to talk about my shitty life. Thanks, RR  
  
*****  
  
To: RRocket@aol.com From: deraad@ucms.edu  
  
Talking about your shitty life is optional. -- Karl  
  
*****  
  
Author's Note: I'll be traveling for the Holidays, and will have minimal computer access. So, I'm afraid my story will have to go on "winter hiatus" for a couple of weeks. In case you were wondering, Karl De Raad is the head of the psychiatry department at County. He's the cool middle-aged guy, not the annoying resident that Luka was supposed to see. 


	5. Professional Development

Karl De Raad appraised his newest non-patient: he looked like hell. Robert Romano was several years Karl's junior, and he had always appeared even more youthful than that. But he seemed to have aged ten years in the past two. He had been practically mute through lunch. Fortunately, the kids were out and Celeste was adept at dealing with whomever her husband brought home.  
  
After lunch, the doctors retreated into the den, where De Raad took Robert's blood pressure and they discussed sleep aids. Romano was, predictably, terse and defensive. Only with much prodding did he admit that nightmares played a role in his sleep disturbance. Once they had settled on a tentative medication plan, De Raad tried to open a dialogue with, "So, how are things going for you otherwise?"  
  
Robert replied suspiciously, "You said I didn't have to talk about my life."  
  
"I lied."  
  
Robert looked at De Raad sharply, at which point the psychiatrist grinned, "I'm kidding." Then, seriously, he added, "I will do my best to help you with the insomnia, even if you never say a word about other issues. And I won't nag. But you can't expect me not to ask how you're doing."  
  
"Fine," Robert said, with a trace of a smirk, "I'm doing just swell."  
  
"There, was that so hard?" Karl replied, his piercing look softened by a good-natured smile.  
  
*****  
  
A week or so later . . .  
  
Neela Rasgotra, on the third day of her surgical rotation, was feeling a bit harried. She stepped off the elevator and walked toward the ER Admit area, smiling as she saw the face she was looking for.  
  
"Hey, stranger," Michael Gallant greeted Neela, "How are things in the wonderful world of surgery?"  
  
"Fine. Interesting. Hectic," she replied, "I'm almost as discombobulated as I was my first day down here." Despite the ubiquitous noise and activity, the Emergency Department had become home during her stint there. 'A certain kind, soft-spoken resident might have had something to do with that,' she thought, suppressing a fond grin.  
  
"Do you have time for lunch?" Gallant invited.  
  
"I'm afraid not. Actually, I came down here to see if I could get your opinion on something." Neela proceeded to outline a case that she was working on, under Dr. Edson's supervision. She finished with, "He insists that it's a pyogenic liver abscess, but I'm concerned that it might be an amoebic abscess. Dr. Edson didn't seem interested in discussing the matter any further. I don't want to step on any toes, especially since he's probably right. What do you think?"  
  
"I think I'm out of my league," Gallant admitted, "Both diagnoses seem consistent with the symptoms and physical exam. I suppose you'd get the differential from the ultrasound, but I can't make a call on that."  
  
Neela looked disappointed, but not surprised.  
  
Gallant continued, "Why don't you ask Dr. Edson to explain to you why he thinks your diagnosis is wrong?" Then he added, "This IS a teaching hospital," parroting the trite phrase with mock enthusiasm.  
  
"I think he's getting rather tired of my questions already, but, yes, that would be the sensible thing to do . . ." Neela trailed off, watching as Dr. Romano crossed the Admit area and entered Exam 2.  
  
Following her gaze, Gallant smirked and said, "I see you're considering a more extreme measure."  
  
"I don't know," Neela added, "Is he still . . . ?"  
  
"The walking dead? Yep," Gallant replied, not unkindly. "But on the plus side, that means he's less likely to yell at you."  
  
"Unless, of course, you're Dr. Pratt," Neela grinned. Dr. Romano had been eerily quiet since the incident with the motorcyclists. He spoke softly, only when necessary, and he made eye-contact rarely and fleetingly. On occasion he would say something vicious to a consulting surgical resident, but for the most part he was just utterly withdrawn. Pratt was the one reliable exception to this behavior pattern. The brash resident seemed to draw forth venom from some reserve in the ER chief's psyche unaffected by depression. Neela smiled, remembering Dr. Lewis teasing Pratt:  
  
"If he stops insulting you, then we're really going to worry."  
  
Pratt had grumbled in reply, "Why do I have to be the litmus test for Captain Hook's mental health?"  
  
Gallant wished Neela luck, giving her a grave salute and an encouraging smile. As she made her way over to Exam 2, she felt ambivalent about disturbing Dr. Romano. He seemed so sad, lately, and, regardless of how unpleasant he had been, she didn't want to do anything that might make that worse. She wasn't sure if asking his opinion about a surgical case would do so or not. Since she really wanted an expert's perspective, she convinced herself that it would be alright. Surely, people must occasionally seek his advice on such matters, though Neela had never seen it happen. 'If he doesn't want to talk to me, he'll let me know. Probably rudely.'  
  
Ducking her head in the door, Neela asked tentatively, "Excuse me, Dr. Romano, can I bother you for a minute?"  
  
Romano had a small desk tucked in the corner, at which he was seated doing paperwork. He looked up, his demeanor not exactly forbidding, but not exactly welcoming either. He nodded, and said quietly, "I thought you'd rotated elsewhere."  
  
Neela entered and explained her predicament. Romano listened as she presented the details of the case. When she was finished, he asked a few questions about the bloodwork and studied the ultrasound pictures carefully. He seemed lost in thought and didn't immediately offer an opinion, so Neela prompted, "I'm not sure I understand why Dr. Edson reached the conclusion he did."  
  
Romano replied, "If by 'I don't understand' you mean you think he's wrong and you're right, then you've hit the nail on the head. Nice catch." He favored Neela with a small smile, then went on to point out the subtleties of the chem panel, history, and ultrasound that supported her diagnosis. He ended with, "You can try again to make Dale see the light, but even if he doesn't, don't sweat it. Needle-aspiration with ultrasound guidance is the recommended course for a pyogenic abscess. While it's often unnecessary for an amoebic, it's not outside the standard-of-care for ambiguous cases and can be used to confirm the diagnosis."  
  
Neela felt satisfied and relieved. "Thank you," she said sincerely.  
  
Romano was more animated than Neela had seen him in a while. He regarded her with a teasing expression, "So, are you happy to be out of this pit of stench and despair?"  
  
Neela laughed, "It's very different. The procedures are really fascinating. Though I sometimes miss the more collegial relations down here."  
  
"Yeah," Romano snorted, "Surgeons tend to be assholes. We don't play well with others."  
  
Neela prudently let that comment slide. "From my orientation, it seems that I'll be doing more fetching and carrying and getting less hands-on experience than I had hoped for, given what Abby told me about her rotation."  
  
"Dumping scut on med students makes the world go round," Romano smirked, "But, yeah, Edson is kind of stingy with procedures. Too bad you didn't get Corday. Are you thinking about surgery as a specialty?"  
  
"I'm really not sure," Neela answered thoughtfully. "I've always been interested in pediatrics, but then I enjoyed my ER rotation far more than I expected to. And now, well, there's something compelling about surgery . . . it's just so . . .," she trailed off, not sure if she should be enthusing about something that the man she was speaking to would never get to do again.  
  
"Powerful," Romano finished for her reverently, absent his usual cynical posturing. "The patient's life is literally in your hands. And if you do your job right, you can mend him. You can cut and sew a path back from the brink of death, then send him home with a gift of ten, twenty, maybe fifty more years to live."  
  
Romano had a far-away look in his eyes and Neela wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to himself. She had often seen his bitterness at the loss of his profession, but had never observed his passion for it until now. His face was unreadable for a moment. Then he snapped out of his reverie, adding, "Of course, you know, you don't necessarily have to choose between pediatrics and surgery. Pediatric surgery is an option, if you can get in."  
  
"I've considered that. There's just so much to think about," she replied, sounding a bit overwhelmed.  
  
"Well, there's no need to stress about it just yet. I'm sure Dale will keep you plenty busy for a while. Still, it might be nice for you to spend a day or two observing a pediatric surgeon." He continued with a wry grin, "Let me think - are there any peds surgeons who don't hate me? Nope, nobody local comes to mind. But I'm sure Dr. Corday can hook you up with someone. You can tell her I sent you."  
  
Neela thanked him again, then glanced down at her vibrating pager. "It's Dr. Edson. And, although you wouldn't think one could discern it from a pager's buzz, he sounds cross."  
  
"Go, Miss Rasgotra. Placate your taskmaster." Romano waved her away.  
  
*****  
  
A few days later . . .  
  
Robert sat in the hospital cafeteria, drinking a cup of tea and nibbling half-heartedly on a bagel. It was well before seven in the morning, so the cafeteria was still quiet - no way could he tolerate being here at mid-day. Still, he was feeling marginally better than he had been. The combination of the sleep medication De Raad had suggested and cutting his caffeine intake back to a more sane level enabled him to get three or four hours of sleep at a stretch. It wasn't enough; he still felt wiped out and he still woke up screaming more often than not. But at least he had a little bit of control over the situation.  
  
From his table in the far corner next to the emergency exit, Robert observed a gaggle of staff enter the large room, talking and laughing. He busied himself with the journals he'd brought and feigned invisibility. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Elizabeth. She was with the group, but detached from it. After a pregnant pause, she headed his way.  
  
"You reduced one of my residents to tears yesterday," she greeted him warmly.  
  
"I was way meaner to Abby and she never cried," he responded, "Besides, you don't seem too upset about it."  
  
Elizabeth shrugged, sitting down across from him, and replied honestly, "I worry more when you send them back to me unscathed."  
  
Robert looked away, thrown by her admission of concern. Elizabeth switched to a teasing tone, "I met your little protégé, Neela."  
  
Robert replied diffidently, "She's got decent diagnostic skills for a newbie." Then he smirked, "Or maybe I just dig the accent."  
  
Elizabeth laughed, the sound setting Robert at ease. After a moment of comfortable quiet, she said, "I'll talk to some people in peds, and coerce Dale into cutting her loose for a couple of days. I might as well use my power while I've got it."  
  
In response to Robert's confused look she explained, "They're going to do a formal search for Chief of Surgery soon. As Acting Chief I've got an edge, but I'm leaning against putting my hat in the ring."  
  
Robert was surprised, but didn't have the energy to prod her for more information. He waited to see what she would share.  
  
Apparently apropos of nothing, Elizabeth went on, "I saw Peter Benton last week. He was at the A.S.M. workshop."  
  
"What did he say about me?" Robert inquired.  
  
"Because, of course, the universe revolves around you . . .," Elizabeth shot back.  
  
"Did he laugh?"  
  
"Oh please," Elizabeth returned snidely, "Peter barely laughs when something is actually funny."  
  
As Robert snickered, she thought fondly, 'Nobody appreciates my bitchy side like he does.' Next, she reported, "Peter showed me a picture of Reese. I think he's almost as tall as you are now."  
  
Robert "Hmpfed" in mock offense. Talking with Elizabeth made him feel more like himself, even if he couldn't quite keep up his end of the banter.  
  
Elizabeth looked contemplative as she continued, "I've been thinking about Ella. She won't remember that her mother was always working when she was two. But she'll remember if I'm still never home when she's four or five. Peter cut back on his career for a few years while Reese was young. Now he's feeling out some more challenging positions, maybe for the year after next. And he's getting offers."  
  
Robert shrugged. "He's a pain in the ass, but he's a good surgeon."  
  
"My point is, backing off for a while wasn't professional suicide." Then she added, more hotly, "But it's different for a woman. We get categorized as not-serious if we put our kids first - the 'Mommy-track'."  
  
After Elizabeth spat these last words, Robert put in lightly, "Lizzie, if you're looking to vent your rage on the male-dominated surgical profession, perhaps I should remind you that I'm not currently active in said profession."  
  
Elizabeth felt the poignancy of his near-admission that he was no longer a surgeon. But she was on a roll and continued, "Well, screw them. I'm going to run my career as I see fit. If I decide to take a break from the fast-lane, let them try to stop me when I want to come back!"  
  
Robert appeared to be enjoying her rant. After a pause, she asked him softly, "You're not disappointed in my lack of ambition, are you?"  
  
"No. Of course not. You tearing them all a new one a few years down the line - that's worth waiting for." More seriously, he added, "I won't be able to help you, you know, but I doubt you'll need it anyway."  
  
Elizabeth smiled at the pride in his tone. "No Robert, I don't need you to protect me from the good-old-boys club." Then, catching his gaze determinedly, she asked, "And you know what else I don't need you to protect me from?"  
  
She answered her own question, "You."  
  
He looked away awkwardly. "Elizabeth . . ."  
  
"We haven't spoken in weeks. I miss you." Elizabeth understood that Robert wanted some space, and she had tried to respect his wishes. But frankly, that plan didn't seem to be working out for either of them: she fretted over the cryptic comments that floated up from the ER, and he looked terrible.  
  
"I don't know . . ." he trailed off.  
  
Elizabeth had never seen Robert so uncertain. Normally the most decisive, strong-willed, stubborn person she knew, Elizabeth got the feeling that right now she could easily push him into going along with her wishes. But she wanted it to be his decision. "Look Robert, I want to be your friend. That's all. Nothing heavy. How about coffee now and then? Maybe some malicious gossip about our co-workers . . . ?"  
  
Robert cast his eyes down for a long moment. Coming to a decision, he looked up and smiled, almost shyly, "OK."  
  
"Good. We can look for each other the next time we're here early in the morning," she concluded, deliberately leaving things open. She got up to go.  
  
Just as Elizabeth turned around, Robert inquired in an innocent tone, "Uh, we're still using the word 'coffee' euphemistically, right?"  
  
*****  
  
The following weekend . . .  
  
Robert was beginning to think that his plan for the evening had been a mistake. He and Karl De Raad were watching the Terps play South Carolina on ESPN. Karl had been willing to help him deal with his sleep problems, even though Robert flatly refused to consider the psychotherapy, antidepressants, or anxiety medications that the psychiatrist wanted him to try. Robert actually did trust Karl's judgment. He knew that his colleague prescribed psychoactive meds sparingly, in short courses, as part of a more comprehensive treatment program. But he just couldn't bring himself to go that route. And therapy? Yeah, right.  
  
The only thing De Raad had insisted on was that Robert see him for a few follow-up visits, "as a professional courtesy." Romano was reluctant to meet at the hospital. And he knew that Karl, like himself, was a baseball addict who subsisted on college basketball during the off-season. So, inviting the other doctor over to watch the game seemed like a painless way to discharge his obligation.  
  
It started out pretty well. Karl was a good guy, surprisingly sane for a shrink, and Robert found his company agreeable. The only problem was the time. The game went on into the evening, and Robert's anxiety level was always much higher at night. He scheduled himself for day shifts at work, accordingly. But he had associated the night stress with his inability to go to sleep, so it hadn't occurred to him that it would be much of a problem when he WASN'T trying to sleep.  
  
By the end of the first quarter, he was fidgeting restlessly. By halftime, he was having trouble staying in his seat for more than a few minutes at a time. Senseless feelings of unease and distress would well up in his chest and to tamp them down he needed to move, to walk - to the next room, upstairs and back, wherever. Fortunately, Karl seemed pretty tolerant of these disturbances. Robert felt sure that, were their roles reversed, he would have strangled such an irritating viewing companion.  
  
At the halftime break, Karl addressed him, "Here's a silly question: are you OK?"  
  
There was enough humor in De Raad's tone that Robert wasn't too put off by the question. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little antsy. I guess I'm getting tired."  
  
"Want me to catch the end of the game at home?" the older man offered.  
  
Robert sighed, "Yeah, I guess so. I should try to get some rest. I'm sorry."  
  
De Raad's lips quirked briefly into a sympathetic smile, and he asked, "Do you really think you'll be able to sleep, or do you just not want any witnesses?"  
  
Robert shrugged, flustered at the other doctor's insight. He started to get up to pace some more, when Karl told him firmly, "Sit," and guided him through a breathing exercise. Robert was desperate enough for relief that he did what he was told.  
  
A short while later he was feeling somewhat less agitated, and more angry. "This is stupid," he fumed, "I'm in my own living room, not on the friggin' roof of the hospital! It doesn't make any sense!"  
  
"Maybe helicopters aren't the only thing you're anxious about." Karl suggested quietly.  
  
"OK, see, that's not helping." He sounded annoyed, but there was a trace of self-depreciating humor in his voice.  
  
"Heh," Karl laughed gently, "How about this: the human mind doesn't make that much sense."  
  
"You must be a lot of fun at parties," Romano mocked. "So, does that mean you shrinks can just make shit up?"  
  
Smirking, Karl retorted, "Are you considering a career in psychiatry now?"  
  
"Hmmm . . . well, that IS something I could do with only one hand . . .," Robert taunted. Joking around made him feel calmer. He guessed that De Raad had picked up on this and was playing along. But what the hell - it was working.  
  
"Oh God, please don't," Karl shot back.  
  
Robert continued, "Nah, it wouldn't work. I hate people. I couldn't stand listening to them whine all day."  
  
"You must have to listen to your patients' health complaints in the ER," Karl reasoned.  
  
"I just skim. You know, 'blah blah . . . fever . . . blah blah . . . lower back pain . . .'" Robert mimicked. As he finished, he noticed Karl was looking away, distracted. "What?" Robert demanded.  
  
"Huh? No, I was listening: blah blah . . . hate people . . . blah blah . . . skimming . . ."  
  
Robert let out a short laugh, then scowled and said, "Just watch the damn ballgame."  
  
Author's notes: I hope my interpretation is consistent with what little we've seen of De Raad. If not, who are you gonna believe, TPTB or me? :-) Evilspoofauthor2Cassi, I don't have any immediate plans to let Romano slug Pratt, but nonetheless, I think you'll like the next chapter . . . Once again, thank-you to all my reviewers. 


	6. Schadenfreude

Author's note: Sorry about the delay. I was almost done with the chapter, when I decided to revise it in order to integrate a reference to last Thursday's episode. This chapter takes place the day after "Touch and Go," which, in my story, occurred around the end of January. Also, if you don't remember the 'brat pack', see chapter 2.  
  
*****  
  
Michael Gallant stood in Trauma 1, after his latest patient was wheeled out, and flicked off his latex gloves. There was something satisfying about the snapping sound they made: a case closed, a life saved - or, in this instance, an MI stabilized and transferred to cardiology. The young resident supposed that the gloves made the same sound when one lost a patient, but on such occasions he had never noticed irrelevant noises.  
  
Gallant observed as Dr. Romano, standing nearer to the door, facing away, also removed his gloves. Romano slipped the thumb of his prosthesis into the wrist of his right glove, then, with a pause and soft mechanical whirr, closed the hand. With the cuff of the glove thus secured, he pulled his right hand out. Then he opened the artificial hand, retrieved the glove, and used his right hand to remove the glove that was on the prosthesis. He dropped the gloves into the trash, and left the room without a word or backward glance.  
  
Gallant was not surprised. Romano had been like this for three or four weeks now. He did what he needed to do, but lifelessly - in sharp contrast with his usual bombastic personality and his over-the-top anger of recent months. Unbidden, the image of a star exploding into a fiery giant, then imploding into something cold and dark, popped into Gallant's mind, and he frowned.  
  
Lately, Michael had been seeing a lot of the ER Chief. Practically every time Romano worked on an unstable patient, he brought Gallant along with him. When Gallant finally pressed for an explanation, Romano had reluctantly admitted that he ran into difficulty in a trauma and wanted to have a resident along for assistance, adding bitterly, "If you want more details, pester Dr. Lewis."  
  
Gallant was a bit disturbed that he hadn't been informed earlier about what was going on. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that he was also flattered. This latest development was consistent with Romano's past, frustratingly inconsistent, behavior: he called Gallant an affirmative action imbecile, then when he needed someone to treat his burned arm he asked for him; he insinuated that Gallant had only half a brain, then he depended on him as his back-up. Michael mused with a wry grin, 'If I just ignore everything he says, I might get the impression that he thinks I'm a good doctor.'  
  
Exiting the trauma room, Gallant checked the board, then headed into the lounge for a break. Minutes later, he was facing off across a chessboard with Greg Pratt. As far as Gallant knew, the game had always been kicking around the lounge, mostly ignored. Then Lester brought in a chess clock, and suddenly the lounge was hopping several times a day with the rhythmic whap-whap-whap of players making their moves and slapping down on the timer buttons.  
  
This time, however, Pratt's mind was not on the game, but on a run-in with their supervisor he'd had yesterday. Gallant remembered the patient involved, a young man with ankylosing spondylitis who'd been in a car accident with his father. Pratt vented:  
  
"Anesthesiology's taking their sweet time getting down here, and the guy's losing his airway, so I go to intubate. Right in the middle of the procedure, Romano barges in and makes me stop. I tell him the kid needs an airway NOW, so he tells Lester to prep for an emergency tracheotomy."  
  
Gallant raised his eyebrows, "That's kind of extreme."  
  
"That's what I thought. So I told him I was on it, I almost had the tube in, there's no need to be cutting the guy up. And he's like, 'I'd rather trach him than break his neck.'"  
  
"So, what happened?"  
  
"He and Lester did the trach, Anesthesiology's pissed, and so am I. I mean, would it kill Romano to admit that I might just know what the hell I'm doing?"  
  
Given the possibility of total paralysis, Gallant was inclined to side with Romano on this one. A tracheotomy, while unpleasant, would heal. But he knew that Pratt was still smarting over being kicked to the curb by Valerie, so he decided not to press the issue. Instead he asked, "How is the patient now?"  
  
"Oh, he'll be fine - except for the unnecessary hole in his throat."  
  
Just then, the residents were interrupted by Sam, who burst into the room saying, "Stop the clock, boys, we've got wounded!"  
  
Gallant got up immediately, froze the chess timer, and asked, "What is it? MVA? GSW?"  
  
"Nah, just the 'brat pack', but they're getting hyper out in chairs," Sam replied, stifling an uncharacteristic giggle. "There was a M*A*S*H marathon on TV yesterday," she explained, "and Alex HAD to watch all twelve hours. I've still got it on the brain."  
  
"So, does that mean we can call you 'Hotlips'?" Pratt flirted.  
  
"Only if you don't mind having your tongue sutured to your chest," the nurse answered sweetly.  
  
Pratt and Gallant went out to the waiting area. "Where's Dr. Romano?" Gallant inquired, recognizing the children. "He's treated some of these guys before."  
  
"Busy fixing Red's mess," Sam sniped, nodding toward the Exam 1 window. Morris, Romano, and a patient were partially visible through the blinds. Romano was pacing, shaking his head in obvious disapproval.  
  
Pratt pulled Gallant aside and said, "Let's take the hand lac before Romano gets here," gesturing toward a little girl with a bloodied towel wrapped around her hand, held in place by her teacher. At Gallant's questioning look, he explained, "These kids have enough stacked against them without having to deal with Mr. K.K.K."  
  
The patient in question was black, her light brown face smudged with dirt and her hair pulled back into three messy braids. Against his better judgment, Gallant found himself defending Romano, "He wouldn't say anything to a child."  
  
With a thoughtful expression, Pratt replied, "Maybe not, but kids pick up on that stuff." Then, watching the teacher struggle to keep the towel in place on the squirming girl, he added more lightly, "Besides, she's probably gonna need stitches and he can't sew worth a damn on a moving target."  
  
The two residents proceeded into an exam room, with the teacher and child in tow, leaving the remaining students with the teacher's assistant. Pratt addressed the little girl, smiling, "Hey, Princess, what happened to your hand?"  
  
The girl didn't respond, but Sam, swooping by to drop off some supplies, put in, "4 cm lac to left palm, self-inflicted with a glass bottle, tetanus is current."  
  
The teacher, Ms. Anders, was visibly upset. "She must have found the bottle on the playground. I got her here right away. It looks deep," she fretted.  
  
"We'll take good care of her, Ma'am," Gallant soothed.  
  
"That's right," Pratt said, then looking at the chart for the name, he asked, "OK, Kiesha, can I see your hand please?"  
  
Kiesha didn't answer, but when Pratt reached for her, she pulled her hand back and held it against her body protectively.  
  
"Kiesha?" He asked again. Getting no response, he turned to her teacher, "Can she talk?"  
  
"Yes," Ms. Anders explained, "but she doesn't very often, and not usually to people she's just met. She understands most of what you say to her, as long as she's tuned in." Addressing the girl, she told her, "Kiesh, you need to let the doctors take care of your hand. It's OK. Nobody's going to hurt you."  
  
With prompting from her teacher, Kiesha slowly uncurled her arm and cooperated as Pratt and Gallant irrigated and disinfected the wound. The residents were about to begin suturing, when a crash and screaming came from outside. Ms. Anders groaned, recognizing the cries. "That's one of mine," she sighed, looking toward the door.  
  
"You wanna go check on them?" Pratt offered. "We're fine here," he said, smiling toward the girl, "She's being an angel. We'll bring her out in a few minutes."  
  
As the yelling outside intensified, the teacher nodded gratefully. Patting Kiesha on the shoulder, she got up to go, saying, "I'll be right outside."  
  
Kiesha showed no reaction as her teacher exited the room. But she reacted strongly when Gallant approached with a needle; she pulled her hand away and tensed as if she might bolt. Pratt, sitting on her right side reached around behind her with his left arm, holding her in the chair. With his right arm across her, he secured her injured left hand, saying, "Don't worry, honey, this won't hurt a bit."  
  
Pratt's attempts to restrain and calm the child had the opposite effect. She went ballistic, kicking and thrashing. She managed to knock the needle from Gallant's hands and arched upwards to escape Pratt's grasp. When Pratt moved his arm up to compensate, she bit down hard on his forearm. Suppressing a curse, he pulled his arm away and ducked his head - inadvertently bringing his face within reach of Kiesha's foot. The toe of her shoe connected solidly with his nose.  
  
Pratt yelped and backed away. Surprisingly, Keisha did not get up and run, but, instead, curled into herself on the chair. Pratt felt his nose and discerned that it wasn't broken. "Oh man, I'm bleeding," he moaned, "let me get it stopped and I'll be back in a minute."  
  
Pratt left the room, applying pressure to his oozing proboscis. Gallant gathered the supplies that had been strewn in the scuffle, and watched his patient go from thrashing wildcat to silent lump in the blink of an eye. The door opened. Gallant looked over, surprised that his fellow resident could return so quickly.  
  
Instead of Greg, Dr. Romano entered the room, laughing softly. He addressed the little girl in a delighted tone, "You hurt Pratt!"  
  
'It's nice to hear him laugh,' Gallant thought, shaking his head, bemused, 'Of course it would be nicer if he wasn't laughing at somebody else's misfortune.'  
  
Kiesha was apparently unused to having her violent outbursts met with such glee. She looked up at Dr. Romano, her placid mask turning into a slightly puzzled expression.  
  
"You know, we're going to have to stitch up your hand, sweetheart, even if you're not crazy about the idea," Romano told her matter-of-factly. Then, addressing Gallant, he asked, "How far did you get?"  
  
"Cleaned and irrigated, but it might've been contaminated when she moved."  
  
Romano nodded, "We'll numb, then re-disinfect and suture." Turning to Kiesha, he said, "I'm going to hold your hand steady so Dr. Gallant can give you a shot and sew up your cut. He'll put something on your hand so the needle won't hurt much. It might sting for a second, then your hand will feel tingly."  
  
He placed his hand, palm up, on the table, and gestured with his head to indicate that she should do the same. At first, she did nothing. But after several seconds she slowly complied, placing her up-turned left hand on top of his right. He lightly curled his pinky finger around her wrist and held her fingers straight with his thumb.  
  
Gallant noticed that, while their patient's hand was restrained fairly securely, the rest of her was not. Romano was sitting on Kiesha's right side, in the chair Pratt had vacated, with a good foot and a half between his body and hers. His prosthetic arm was hanging down at his side. If the girl managed to pull away from his grip on her hand, there was no way he would be able to grab her. 'Oh, well,' Gallant reasoned, 'grabbing her didn't work so well last time anyway.'  
  
Kiesha was tense, but still, as Gallant administered the injection. She relaxed almost imperceptibly when it was over. Romano whispered, "Good girl." Kiesha looked over at him. He met her gaze with a twinkle in his eye, then looked down at his lap and then back at her. Much to Gallant's surprise, the child accepted this nonverbal invitation and scooted over onto Romano's lap.  
  
As Gallant began suturing, Romano quietly asked, "Kiesha, did you do this on purpose?" glancing toward her hand. She didn't exactly nod in reply, but there was something affirmative about the way she cocked her head. Romano continued, "Well, don't do that again." His tone was serious, but with an edge of wry self-consciousness at the absurdity of trying to reason with a kid who intentionally mangles herself.  
  
The girl stared up at Romano intently; then she reached up with her free hand and touched his face. Reflexively, he drew back a little, but the way they were positioned there really wasn't anywhere for him to go. Lightly, she tapped her fingertips along his beard, from one end to the other. She tilted her head back and giggled, a low musical sound, while patting the side of his face.  
  
Gallant, watching out of the corner of his eye, had to force himself not to laugh. Romano had a rare unguarded, almost silly, smile on his face. He looked confused, but was clearly charmed by the girl's bizarre display of affection. Then, as suddenly as Kiesha started, she stopped. Sticking her thumb in her mouth, she curled up against Romano's chest and rested quietly through the remainder of the procedure.  
  
*****  
  
After returning Kiesha to her teacher and discussing follow-up care, Robert entered the lounge. Pratt was sitting on the couch with an ice pack pressed against his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but there was still a little swelling. A nicer man would have offered sympathy, or at least not gloated. Robert was not such a man. He laughed at Pratt, saying, "Wait 'till you see what I told Miguel to do to you."  
  
Pratt was galled by Romano's attitude, but also amused at the older man's complete lack of subtlety - 'the little prick can't even pretend he's not enjoying this'. He growled back, "Keep your minions away from me."  
  
Romano chuckled. He couldn't remember the last time he was in such a good mood. It was fun to watch the arrogant lout suffer. And succeeding where another guy failed, even if it was at something as insignificant as wrangling a nutty little kid, was icing on the cake.  
  
Since Anspaugh's reprieve, Pratt continued to be a thorn in Romano's side. It wasn't Pratt's arrogance, exactly, that pissed him off. It wasn't even the fact that the resident didn't have the goods to back up his high opinion of himself. Frankly, few people did - the world of medicine was full of enormous egos held up by flimsy platforms of talent. No, what really bugged Romano about Pratt was that Pratt thought HE was incompetent. Each time he gave Pratt an order there was that skeptical look, questioning whether Romano knew what he was talking about.  
  
It drove Robert nuts. "Rocket Romano" had never been incompetent at anything in his life. He knew that others regarded him as a mean son-of-a- bitch, but there was always the understanding that he was truly excellent at his craft. Until recently, that is. Now, while he was better than Pratt gave him credit for, he would never again be the best of the best. And he wasn't really sure how to live with being mediocre. 'Aw, hell - I just talked myself out of my good mood,' he thought, groaning softly.  
  
As if on cue, another mood-killer walked through the door of the lounge. Morris shuffled in, glanced around, saw the unwelcoming eyes of his colleagues, grabbed a piece of cold pizza from the 'fridge, and split. Romano shook his head, still disgusted with the red-haired resident's inept performance earlier. He tried to focus on happier thoughts, like Pratt bleeding. Only Pratt wasn't bleeding any more, and now he was speaking:  
  
". . . you don't see anything odd about the fact that I'M the one you're trying to fire?"  
  
"Why are you talking to me? You know I hate that," Romano responded dismissively.  
  
"You can't possibly think that I'm the worst resident here. But I'm the one you're gunning for. In my book, that's discrimination."  
  
"Oh, fine. After I get rid of you, Red's next. Happy?"  
  
"I'm serious, man," Pratt pressed, growing irritated with Romano's flip attitude.  
  
"What do you want me to say?" Romano sighed, "You're reckless and annoying, and I want you gone. Fortunately for you, the powers-that-be don't give a rat's ass what I want. Anyway, it's considerably harder to fire somebody like Morris."  
  
"Why?" Pratt asked, taking advantage of his supervisor's atypical candor.  
  
"Because he's an idiot. It's not like he's doing it on purpose." At Pratt's frown, he continued, "Hey, if it were up to me we'd do IQ tests like the airlines do drug tests . . ."  
  
Hearing the word 'drug', Pratt scrutinized Romano's expression as the older man continued talking: ". . . med school and first year residency are supposed to weed out this kind of thing . . ."  
  
'Nope. He's clueless,' Pratt concluded. This presented Greg with an ethical dilemma. He had nothing but contempt for Morris, but he had been trying to make a point to Romano, not get the other resident in trouble. Unfortunately, if he was right, Morris might pose a significant risk to patient care. He deliberated with himself, 'It's not my job to rat out other residents, especially not to a creep like Romano. But I can't just do nothing. He's the boss; he needs to know what's going on. And if he's not with-it enough right now to figure it out, somebody's gotta tell him. Damn.'  
  
"Earth to Pratt," Romano interrupted the other man's thoughts, "You're the one who wanted to have this conversation, not me."  
  
Instead of responding to Romano's jibe, Pratt addressed him in a pained voice, "If I tell you something, do you promise not to overreact?"  
  
"No. Tell me anyway."  
  
Pratt hesitated, weighing his options.  
  
Romano prompted impatiently, "What?" Noticing Pratt's troubled expression, he repeated less harshly, "What?"  
  
"I think Morris is using pot," Pratt blurted, before he could change his mind.  
  
Romano snorted, "So what?"  
  
'OK,' Pratt thought, 'I hadn't counted on him UNDERreacting . . .' Then he amended, "I don't mean on weekends, on shift."  
  
Romano sobered and asked quietly, "What's your evidence?"  
  
"Not a lot. And I don't want to come down on him in case I'm wrong. But he comes in smelling like it - says it's his roommate smoking. Sometimes the smell is stronger after he goes outside for a break. And one of his patients claimed that his doc lifted his 'herbal remedy' for glaucoma."  
  
Romano looked lost in thought for a moment, then he said, "They won't let me do random drug tests, so it's one resident's word against another's. That's not enough to support a formal accusation. Especially since it could be interpreted as you trying to take the heat off yourself . . ."  
  
Pratt opened his mouth to protest, but Romano waved it away, saying, "I know." Then he continued, "I'll keep closer tabs on him. If he thinks I'm coming down on him, that may be enough to get him to quit using around work hours. Of course, that'll leave us with his normal not-chemically-enhanced level of uselessness."  
  
Pratt nodded, still uncomfortable with what he'd done.  
  
Romano caught his eye and asked softly, "That really sucked for you, huh? Having to tell me?"  
  
Pratt mumbled, "Yup." He thought he saw something like admiration in Romano's expression, momentarily.  
  
Then it was gone, and Romano smirked, "Almost as bad as getting beat up by an eight-year-old girl . . ."  
  
Pratt let out an exasperated sigh, as Romano left the lounge snickering softly at his expense. 


	7. OffGuard

About half-way through the episode "NICU" . . .  
  
Robert Romano was standing near the elevator, feeling like a complete idiot. His shift had ended at six and his dinner plans with Elizabeth fell through when she was called in to surgery. But, then, another opportunity presented itself. In the weeks since Pratt's revelation, Robert had made a point of watching Morris closely in the hopes of observing something incriminating. So far, no luck. Apparently the little shit was being more careful. Now, however, Morris probably thought that Romano had left for the day. And he had gone up to the roof for his break, someplace his boss would be unlikely to venture even if he were still around. If ever there was a time to catch the pot-head in the act, this was it.  
  
Unfortunately, the glitch in this plan was that it required Robert to actually go up to the roof. And that just wasn't happening. He was able to force himself to get on the elevator and press the appropriate button. But twice now he had chickened out, punching the button that would stop the elevator's ascent in the nick of time - his hand reaching out as if it had a will of its own. Then he would ride down a few floors, trying to re- group. Robert smirked with black humor, imagining his right hand saying, "Hell if I'm going up there - I saw what happened to the other guy!"  
  
When he was in the elevator itself, Robert felt anxious. But as soon as he got out, he just felt stupid. He knew that, currently, there were no helicopters arriving or departing - he'd checked with the helipad controller. And even if one did show up, he would be able to hear it from inside the elevator and keep the doors closed. Rationally, he should be able to do this. Busting the wayward resident should be motivating enough. But apparently it wasn't.  
  
As always, Robert found the senselessness of his fear infuriating. Other than this, he thought he was doing better than he had been. He couldn't say that he was happy, but he felt steadier, more functional. He had successfully weaned himself off the sleeping pills, finding he could now get a few hours of restless sleep without them almost as well as with them. 'I should tell Karl,' he thought, recalling the psychiatrist cautioning against long-term use of hypnotic drugs.  
  
Thinking of De Raad caused a brief pang of guilt, as Robert had been ignoring the other man's inquiries and invitations. 'I can manage on my own now,' he told himself. He tried not to think of the deeper reason, but involuntarily he flashed back to the night he was sitting on his couch, trying to watch the game, feeling like the whole world was about to unravel. He didn't have a name for the emotion that gripped him, but it was overwhelmingly awful. And Karl . . . made it stop. He made him feel safe - just by talking to him. Robert was grateful, of course, but he was also profoundly unnerved at the experience of depending on another person to control what was going on inside his head.  
  
'This whole "I can manage on my own" business would be a lot more plausible if I could make myself stay on the damn elevator!' Robert fumed. OK - one more time. He got on the elevator, which, thankfully, was empty. He forced himself to be still as the carriage, and the tension in his body, rose. But by the time he got within a couple of floors of the top, he could hear it in his mind - the thumping rotors, the screaming. His resolve broke. Without looking, he slapped the elevator buttons and bailed out at the next floor.  
  
*****  
  
Not even her meeting with the board of directors, simultaneously tense and tedious, could sour Kerry Weaver's mood today. She was having a baby. Well, not literally, but close enough. Actually, Sandy joked that Kerry was getting the better end of the deal - motherhood without morning sickness. Such jokes took on a slightly awkward tone, since they both knew that Kerry would give anything to be able to carry their child to term herself.  
  
'Awkward' was a good way to describe Kerry's relationship with Sandy after her miscarriage. Sandy felt that Kerry was pressuring her to become pregnant; Kerry felt that if Sandy really cared about her she would be willing to at least consider bearing their child. For a while Kerry thought this conflict might break them. But somehow, it didn't. Whatever their differences, neither of them wanted to see it end.  
  
So, Kerry started researching adoption, and was reassured by Sandy's enthusiastic support. And then, somewhere along the way, Sandy changed her mind and wanted to become pregnant. To this day, Kerry wasn't completely sure what caused the turn-around. The fact that Kerry stopped pushing her probably helped. Also, Sandy seemed touched by Kerry's reason for preferring her to have a baby rather than simply adopting: The child would have no genetic connection to Kerry either way - since Sandy was younger, her eggs would be more viable, and the sperm would come from a donor. But Kerry wanted her baby to be biologically part of somebody she loved - Sandy.  
  
Whatever the motivation, Sandy was now, as she put it, "ready to pop." They had actually rushed in to the hospital last week, surreptitiously, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Now, walking from the meeting room back to her office, Kerry was almost dizzy with excitement and exhilaration. Nothing could dampen her spirits right now. Not even . . . 'Oh God, what does he want?'  
  
Robert Romano stepped off the elevator maybe 10 feet in front of her. Kerry encountered Robert when she passed through the ER, and she saw him at the monthly Department Heads' meeting (when he showed up!) but it had been a while since he had come up to her office - let alone dropped in unannounced. A surprise visit from Romano . . . could that possibly mean anything good?  
  
Getting over her initial misgivings, Kerry looked at Robert again. He seemed a bit shaken. Instead of walking toward the administrative offices, he turned around and stared at the elevator as the doors closed. Kerry, taking advantage of catching him unaware, asked, "Are you lost, or are you coming to see me?"  
  
Robert turned around with a start. He noticed Kerry and replied, "What? . . . Uh, no, I wasn't coming to see you. I just . . . I, uh . . . wasn't . . ."  
  
Kerry was both amused and concerned by Robert's uncharacteristic lack of articulation. She waited a moment to see if he would get his thoughts together. When that didn't seem to be happening, she decided to have mercy and give him an 'out'. She offered, "Well, as long as you're here, there are a couple of things we can discuss. Do you have a minute?"  
  
"Sure," he nodded, and followed Kerry down the hall. They went into Kerry's office. He sat down across the desk from her.  
  
Kerry attributed the absence of any biting comments about her décor to Robert's continued distraction. She wanted to ask him what was the matter, but she knew that would go over like a lead balloon with her prickly colleague. Instead, she opted for a more sarcastic approach: "The number of complaints about you has dwindled significantly in the last month. I take it that means you've bullied everybody into submission?"  
  
"Yep. That's the plan," he retorted, then, cutting to the chase, he asked, "What's up?"  
  
"Well, there's nothing urgent, but I wanted to let you know that we're sending Dr. Lewis to the Emergency Medicine conference in Sacramento next weekend."  
  
"Does she know?" Robert inquired.  
  
"Yes. She's whining about having to leave her dog."  
  
Robert nodded and smiled a little.  
  
Kerry continued, "The only other thing is the upcoming audit. Unfortunately, I don't have much new information about when that will happen. They say 'some time in the next two months.' They'll notify us the day before."  
  
"Kerry, you can't let those guys push you around," Romano groused, seeming more like himself, "Tell 'em they need to give you 48 hours notice."  
  
"They seem to be operating under the notion that giving us warning defeats the purpose of a surprise audit," she replied dryly.  
  
"That's bullshit. They don't just want to unobtrusively peek at our books. They want things summarized and presented to them in a digestible form. That takes manpower. And they can't expect to be our top priority when it comes to allocating staff time." As he spoke, he twisted his wrist, as if trying to work out a cramp.  
  
Kerry was impressed with the way Robert had turned the tables, giving a rationale for requiring notice that didn't make it sound like the auditors were catching us with our pants down. She would have to remember that the next time she dealt with them. She nodded approvingly. But then she recalled, "Hey, wait a minute - you got us only a day's notice for the last audit."  
  
"Uh, no. I had two days. I told you 'one' because I like to watch you scurry," Robert said, grinning.  
  
Ah, this was the Romano that Kerry knew and loathed. She noticed that he was still fidgeting, and asked, "What's wrong with your hand?"  
  
"Nothing," he replied flatly.  
  
"Did you pull something?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Are you sure? Where does it hurt?" Kerry persisted. She pointed to the muscle that he seemed to be trying to stretch, "Here?"  
  
"Nope." Then, after a pause he added with a smirk, "Other hand."  
  
"Oh . . . OH," Kerry said, catching on.  
  
Robert's smug expression at having thrown her for a loop faded and was replaced by a look of embarrassment. Kerry supposed that he regretted having revealed what he undoubtedly viewed as a weakness. It scared her a bit that his warped thought process actually made sense to her. Before the moment could become too awkward, she asked, "So, stretching your right hand helps?"  
  
"Sometimes. Unless people keep drawing my attention to what I'm doing," he said pointedly, scowling at her.  
  
There was something comical about Robert's exaggerated hostility. Kerry laughed, causing his scowl to deepen. Smiling, she said, "Sorry," though she wasn't really sure what she was apologizing for.  
  
Robert's expression became mischievous as he replied, "I'll let it pass this time, seeing as how you're with child."  
  
Kerry was stunned. Nobody at the hospital knew, except for the obstetrics team, whom Kerry had sworn to secrecy. She stammered, "How did you . . .?"  
  
"I have my ways," he replied, with a self-satisfied grin.  
  
Appealing to Romano's better nature was probably a lost cause. But maybe he would at least sympathize with her desire for privacy. Kerry pleaded, "Robert, I really want to keep this quiet . . ."  
  
He cut her off, "Oh, don't worry. My ill-will toward you is outweighed by my desire to see the stunned looks on the peanut gallery's faces when you walk in with a bouncing baby . . . whatever. I won't tell."  
  
Kerry was somewhat relieved. Before she could thank him, however, Robert veered back into his usual obnoxiousness:  
  
"So, do you get paternity leave or maternity leave, or both?"  
  
*****  
  
A little later that evening, Neela fled the NICU after a harrowing day. She desperately needed to be outside after the stifling confinement of the unit, but she was too wired to go home. The roof would be ideal - just her and the sky. Unfortunately, it was cold and windy. And it would be too tempting for her to stop by the NICU on her way down, and be sucked in again.  
  
Happily, she recalled a little hide-away that she'd stumbled upon during her first days at County. Along the side of the hospital, away from the bustle of the ambulance bay, there was a small overhang. Perhaps a casualty of a construction project that never proceeded, a short stretch of chest-high cinder block wall stood a couple of meters from the building. It was ugly, but it was far enough away from the dumpsters that it didn't smell, far enough from any door that it was private, and, best of all, there was a heating vent so she wouldn't freeze.  
  
Neela arrived at her refuge, dropped her bag on the ground, and leaned her elbows on the wall. For a minute or two, she was numb, as if the emotional flood of the past weeks had swept away her capacity to feel anything more. Then she thought of Inga, the helpless victim not only of fate, but also of technology that can preserve life without healing it, and of Neela's own eagerness. She started to weep softly, knowing that however bad this rotation was for her, there were some small souls for whom it was infinitely worse.  
  
A few minutes later, the tears were slowing to a stop. A teasing voice spoke up from behind her, "I'll give you some hot chocolate if you stop making that sound."  
  
Neela whirled around, startled. She found herself a few feet from Dr. Romano, who was sitting on a bench right next to the building wall, near the heating vent. Neela didn't even remember there being a bench here. 'Oh God - I must have walked right by him without noticing. He was sitting here all along.' Flustered and embarrassed, she stammered, "Dr. Romano . . . oh . . . I'm sorry . . . what are you doing . . .?"  
  
"Sulking," he answered. Patting the bench next to him, he offered playfully, "Wanna sulk with me?" At her hesitance, he added, "Come on, it's warmer over here. And I won't ask you any stupid questions."  
  
Wary, but also weary, she walked over and sat on the other end of the bench. Romano deftly unscrewed the lid of his thermos one-handed, poured hot chocolate into the cup, and gave it to her. They sat quietly for a few minutes, as Neela warmed up. Absently, she wondered where Romano had gotten such excellent hot chocolate.  
  
Romano broke the silence with, "So, who'd you kill?" At Neela's plaintive look, he added, "What? That's not a stupid question."  
  
"I didn't kill anybody. Not exactly anyway . . .," she trailed off forlornly. After a long pause she whispered, "I don't think I can do this."  
  
"Sure you can. How much time you got left?" Romano responded.  
  
"I don't mean finish my rotation. Of course I'll do that." She didn't notice Romano smiling at her complete inability to consider not fulfilling her responsibilities. "But I'm not cut out to be a neonatologist."  
  
"Well," Romano said lightly, "since you've been hooked on every other specialty you've tried, maybe it's not so bad to cross one off the list."  
  
"Not THAT one," she replied, fighting back tears. When she had collected herself, she continued, "NICU was the rotation I was looking forward to the most. It's pediatrics, and it's also high-tech and challenging. I thought it would be perfect for me."  
  
"But it didn't turn out to be what you expected?"  
  
"No, *I* didn't turn out to be what I expected," Neela spat with surprising bitterness. "Because of a procedure I advocated, a little girl suffered a massive brain bleed. And I couldn't even talk to her parents about it. I'm fine with the science, but I can't handle the human interactions."  
  
After a contemplative pause, Romano replied, "I think your assessment of your people skills is wrong." Then he smirked and added, "Of course, I prefer my patients unconscious and their families far, far away, so I'll understand if you don't find my opinion all that reassuring."  
  
Neela smiled in spite of her distress. She sighed, "It's not just that. There's more uncertainty and guesswork in neonatal medicine than in other areas. I think I need to be doing something where I feel more in control."  
  
"Sounds reasonable. You know, there are quite a few other specialties to choose from," he teased.  
  
"Oh, I know. And it's not like I was sure I was going to pick NICU in the end. I just always thought it would be an option. Now I'm afraid whatever I end up in will feel like I'm stuck with second-best. I guess I'm being silly," she berated herself.  
  
Romano looked down for a moment, then looked back at Neela and said quietly, "Thinking about it that way is guaranteed to make you miserable."  
  
After a beat he added more buoyantly, "You'll get over it. How did you like observing Dr. Pennington?"  
  
Neela's expression brightened. "That was amazing," she enthused, "I wish third-years could do pediatric surgery rotations!"  
  
"Well, they prefer to get you after you've had some experience with general surgery and pediatrics. You'll get a shot at it next year. But first I get to torture you a bit more."  
  
Neela grinned. She was actually looking forward to being back in the ER. She missed Michael and Dr. Lewis, and even Pratt and some of the nurses. And, despite his borderline psychotic behaviors, she felt comfortable working with Dr. Romano. She could relate to him as a highly intelligent perfectionist, somebody she could learn from.  
  
"You're starting to look too happy for the sulking section, Miss Rasgotra," Romano observed wryly.  
  
"The sleep deprivation causes mood swings," she shot back, "I'm sure it will pass." After a moment she inquired, "What are you sulking about?"  
  
She wasn't sure if he would answer, but then he shrugged, "Little stuff. No brain-bleeds." He stared down at his prosthesis and said, "Five-year- old looked at me and wigged out. And Dr. Corday blew me off to do a choleduchojejunostomy."  
  
Noticing his jealous tone, Neela smiled slyly and asked, "You fancy her?"  
  
"No," he responded unconvincingly, "But I fancy choleduchojejunostomies."  
  
He was trying to sound glib, but Neela could hear the pain in his voice. She wished that there was something she could do or say that would help, but there wasn't. So she just nodded sympathetically and hoped her expression conveyed empathy without pity. Apparently it did; she saw no offense in his eyes when he gazed back at her.  
  
They sat quietly for a few moments. Then, changing the subject, Romano complained, "Shit. If you're here that means the Med students know about this place . . ."  
  
Neela giggled, "No, actually, I found it myself. None of the others know."  
  
"Good," Romano growled, "Sharing is not my forte."  
  
"Oh wait . . . I might have mentioned it to Abby . . ."  
  
"*groan*"  
  
*****  
  
Author's notes: When I started this story I wasn't really planning on incorporating events from current ER episodes. But some of my reviewers seem to like that, and it helps maintain my flagging interest in the show, so I'll do it when it fits with the dramatic flow of my story. Naturally I reserve the right to ignore anything on the show that I deem boring or stupid :-) Sorry Justine, there's no Elizabeth in this chapter. But she'll be in the next chapter, as will a minor character who is beloved by the folks over at TWoP. 


	8. PuppyLove

About two weeks later . . .  
  
Robert Romano swerved his Jeep to avoid hitting a car whose driver was blithely chattering away on her cell phone. 'Shit! As if driving a stick shift one-handed on icy roads isn't challenging enough, I have to deal with dingbats who shouldn't be allowed to operate anything more dangerous than a toaster!' His invective against clueless female drivers was interrupted by barking from the back seat. "Hey, you're not exactly contributing to road safety either," he admonished the pup, who had her paws up on the back of the seat and was trying to lick his ear.  
  
*****  
  
Monday morning, with the end of her shift approaching, Susan Lewis was tired and cranky. Her flight home from the conference in California had been delayed, getting her back just in time to head straight to her overnight shift Sunday night. Right before the conference, Chuck had learned that he needed to go out of town for the weekend, too. So, they had to scramble to arrange puppy-care. Leaving her "baby" in a kennel was out of the question, and Susan had failed to convince any of her friends to step up to the plate, their reticence perhaps due to the dog's dicey housebreaking status. She had asked Dr. Romano as a last resort, not really expecting him to agree. Surprisingly, he did. So, Chuck dropped the pup off at Robert's house Friday evening, and Robert would return her when he arrived for his shift this morning.  
  
Despite her fatigue, Susan was instantly aware when her furry friend entered the ER, accompanied by Dr. Romano. She rushed over and kissed her, receiving sloppy doggie kisses in return.  
  
"What a cutie!" "She got so big!" "Can I pet her?" Haleh, Jerry, Chuny, and Carter swarmed to greet the little visitor.  
  
Reveling in the attention, the dog started jumping up and grabbing at Jerry's coat. Romano told her firmly, "Twopper, sit," and she sat.  
  
"Oh my God - she sat! She never does what I tell her to do!" Susan commented, laughing.  
  
"It's called training, Lewis. Were you just waiting for her to acquire language on her own?" Romano retorted sarcastically.  
  
"What did you call her?" Carter asked.  
  
Susan launched into an explanation that had, by now, become rote: "My patient, Ben, left a note asking me to keep her. Unfortunately, his handwriting wasn't so great, so we couldn't quite make out the name. It's probably supposed to be 'Trapper' or 'Trooper' or something, but it looked like 'Twopper', and that's what stuck." Affectionately, she continued, "And she's such a precious little Twopper girl, isn't she? I missed you SO much!" *kiss* *kiss*  
  
"Dr. Lewis, your patient in Three is still complaining of chest pain," Haleh reminded her.  
  
"Page Cardiology again," Susan responded. She planted another kiss on the puppy's head, and told Romano, "I'll be right back," as she ducked into Exam 3.  
  
"Take your time," he replied, "I'm early." Turning on the rest of the staff, he growled, "Well, it's obvious you people won't get a lick of work done while the dog is in sight, so we'll be in the lounge." He grabbed some paperwork and headed off with Twopper in tow.  
  
*****  
  
A short time later, Susan and Carter entered the lounge and found Dr. Romano sitting on the couch reading some memos. Twopper was flopped on her back next to him, looking blissful as he absently rubbed her belly.  
  
"I think she's in love," Carter remarked, grinning.  
  
Susan laughed. Addressing Romano, she commented, "I wasn't even sure you liked dogs. You didn't seem too happy about it the last time she was here."  
  
"Sure I like dogs," he responded, "I like rip-roaring sex too, but I don't want to see it in the ER."  
  
"You mean you haven't yet?" Carter asked, feigning innocence, "Happens all the time."  
  
"I think he means sex between TWO people," Susan clarified.  
  
Romano made a funny grossed-out face and said, "Remind me to have the med students hose off Chairs."  
  
"You have a huge dog, right? Like a mastiff or something?" Carter asked, smiling at the mental image of little Romano with a humungous dog.  
  
"Used to," Romano replied, "She died this past fall." With a wry smile he added, "Have I mentioned that last year really sucked?"  
  
Susan grinned at his joking tone, and at Twopper's attempts to nudge the papers off his lap and replace them with herself. Still, she felt bad about him losing his dog, especially amidst everything else, and she said softly, "I'm sorry."  
  
Romano waved away her sympathy, but, recognizing a fellow dog-person he explained, "Well, it wasn't so bad. I was stuck at home a lot for a few weeks after the, uh, surgery, and then Weaver made me start back with only half-shifts. Gretel probably thought that I was finally spending time with her like she deserved. Her last months were good."  
  
Romano's tone was strangely sentimental. Susan responded in kind, "Oh, I know - that's what they really want, isn't it? I had this old dog when I was in college, and I knew it wouldn't be long before . . . Stop laughing at me, Carter!"  
  
"I'm not laughing," Carter protested, stifling a smirk at Romano and Susan's matching expressions of total canine adoration. "I'm not!"  
  
*****  
  
Greg Pratt arrived at work as Susan was leaving with her puppy. Despite the fact that the tyrannical ER Chief was on, Greg was anticipating a pretty good shift. He had been working the ER long enough, now, that he could predict patient flow on the basis of the weather. Today, the temperature was bitterly cold, and while there wasn't much snow on the ground there was a treacherous layer of ice coating everything. That meant the early morning would be slow, as the hypochondriacs and the little old ladies with multiple medical problems would stay home. Then the MVAs and slip-and-falls would kick in and they'd be hopping by noon. That suited Pratt just fine.  
  
Several hours later, Pratt found his expectations for the day had been accurate. They were busy, but handling it well. Romano was in a meeting, leaving Carter in charge - at least until Kovac arrived at 4:00. The only unusual development was that the Pediatrics unit had been closed to new patients due to mercury contamination. The ambulance drivers were supposed to divert children automatically, but naturally, they didn't. Adult medicine would accept teenagers on a case-by-case basis, but younger kids who needed to be admitted had to be assessed and stabilized in the ER, then shipped off to either Mercy or Northwestern. Because of the icy roads and consequent pile-ups, transporting by air was more efficient than by ground. So the hospital had established a holding area on the floor below the helipad.  
  
As Pratt cleared the names of the patients he was finished with off the board, Carter told him, "We've got another kid to go up for transport. Came in by ambulance. Can you bring her upstairs?"  
  
"What part of 'no kiddies' don't they understand? Sure, I'll go," Pratt replied.  
  
Carter gave him the bullet as they walked to the trauma room. "Eight-year- old female removed from home by Social Services. Evidence of repeated sexual abuse, abrasions and contusions on torso in various stages of healing. We've got the bleeding under control, but she needs inpatient evaluation to determine the full extent of her injuries. Temp 101. Head CT is clear. BP, sats are good." As they approached the room they could hear sounds of a struggle as two orderlies tried to restrain the child. Carter added, "And she's not real happy to be here."  
  
Looking through the trauma room window, Pratt swore furiously, "Fuckin' pervert! She can't talk - makes her a perfect victim . . ."  
  
"You know her?" Carter inquired.  
  
"Yeah, she's been here before," Pratt sighed. "Page Romano. She's one of his."  
  
*****  
  
Robert walked into the holding area. It was a large room, well staffed and well organized, but with supplies and equipment obviously pulled together at the last minute. At the moment there were only three patients there, so it wasn't hard to find the one he was looking for -- especially since she was the only one putting up a fight. He approached Kiesha's gurney as the nurse, aide, and Dr. Pratt, were trying to hold the child in place and start an IV. There was a woman in a suit nearby; Robert assumed she was from Social Services.  
  
Robert addressed Kiesha lightly, "Hey, kiddo. Are you picking on these guys?" He was smiling, but his eyes weren't.  
  
The girl responded by pulling one of her hands free and reaching up for him. Wearing a patient gown instead of her street clothes, she seemed tiny and vulnerable. Robert knew she wanted him to pick her up, but he also knew that she wouldn't let go voluntarily when it was time for her to go. Having to be pried from his arms would only make the trauma worse for her. So, instead of lifting her, he put his hand on her shoulder.  
  
Speaking calmly, he explained, "Here's what's going to happen, Kiesh. In a little while, you'll go for a ride on a helicopter to another hospital. The other hospital is near here, so it won't take long. I just talked to Ms. Anders on the phone, and she's going to meet you there."  
  
Kiesha pointed toward Robert. He replied, "I'll stay with you until they're ready to take you. Then I'll drive over to the other hospital. You'll probably get there first, but I promise I will be there later on."  
  
The girl seemed somewhat mollified, so Robert suggested, "If you let us put a needle in your arm we can give you medicine that will make it hurt less . . ."  
  
Before they could attempt to do so, however, a pair of flight nurses entered the room. Robert recognized one of them as Susan's boyfriend, Chuck. The shaggy nurse smiled affably and said to Kiesha and one of the other patients, "Your ride is ready, ladies."  
  
Robert hadn't planned on accompanying his patient up to the helipad itself, for obvious reasons, but at the moment he found himself unwilling to leave her. So he tagged along, keeping a comforting hand on her shoulder. Pratt came too. Robert didn't want Pratt around to witness any phobic reaction he might have, but the resident seemed genuinely concerned about Kiesha, so he didn't make him leave.  
  
Robert managed to get on the elevator without panicking. 'That's it. Just don't think about it,' he told himself. And then they were there - one floor up, at their destination.  
  
The doors opened before he was ready - as if he could ever be ready for the sight and sound that greeted him. The chopper was sitting there, like a predator waiting for fresh meat, humming with power and malice. As soon as he looked at the spinning blades he was lost, paralyzed by panic. Fear hit him like a blow to the chest and the harsh slashing rhythm of the propeller beat out all chance of rational thought. In his mind he was back there: hearing the sharp *zing* of the rotor as it cut through flesh and bone . . . hurting and falling . . . bleeding and dying. He whimpered softly and prayed for it to all go away.  
  
Robert thought he heard Pratt speak to him, but whatever the other doctor said was drowned out by the din both inside and outside his head. He knew he was trembling, and he felt his hand close spasmodically into a fist. Something moved under his fist, and suddenly he remembered Kiesha. He looked down at his hand and saw that, fortunately, it had closed around the fabric of her gown, not her shoulder itself.  
  
The girl gazed upward and once again reached for him, this time punctuating her gesture with a desperate sounding, "Mmmmmm!" Robert saw terror in her eyes, and was stunned to realize that she might actually be more afraid right now than he was. 'I didn't even think that was possible,' he marveled.  
  
Of course, Robert understood that she wasn't afraid of the helicopter per se - just of something strange and noisy that would take her to a place where people she didn't know would hold her down and touch her and maybe hurt her and they were big and she was little and she couldn't make them stop. Looking into her big brown eyes, he saw all this. And he saw that he could make it better. He could pick her up; he could stay with her. He couldn't erase the hell she had been through or fix her damaged mind, but for right now, he could make her feel safe.  
  
But that goddamn thing out there was standing in his way. The terror Robert felt did not abate, but his rage grew to match it. He was incensed at the infernal machine for destroying his life, for cutting out the one thing that justified his existence on the planet: his skill as a surgeon. And now it wanted to strip him of the last vestiges of that role. It wanted to force him to abandon his patient, to stop being a doctor. He didn't understand why Kiesha had placed her trust in him, but because of this attachment he could help her in a way that others couldn't. But *it* wouldn't let him. It was in his way.  
  
Equal parts fear and fury circled each other like wild dogs vying for dominance. Neither was victorious, but one certainty emerged from the fray: NOTHING stands in Rocket Romano's way. Staring straight at the mechanical monster, he said quietly, "Not even you."  
  
Robert looked back down at Kiesha's pleading face and nodded, "OK." He removed his hand from her shoulder and reached down to lift her. He didn't have to do much of the work; with strength born of adrenaline, she flung her arms tightly around his neck and pulled herself up. Somebody helped wrap a blanket around the girl's back, and Robert tucked his prosthesis awkwardly behind her knees.  
  
Pratt and Chuck were talking at him, but all of Robert's attention was focussed on the child in his arms and the deadly adversary in front of him. He started forward and felt Chuck's hand on his shoulder. He realized that the larger man was walking along with him, placing his body between Robert and the tail rotor. In this manner, undeterred by the icy fingers of panic that gripped him, he headed straight for the belly of the beast.  
  
*****  
  
About an hour later . . .  
  
Robert groaned weakly as he heard the bathroom door open. He was kneeling inside a stall, his lab coat discarded on the floor, vomiting violently into the bowl. After the chopper landed, he'd spoken briefly with Donna Anders, and with the pediatrician who would be treating Kiesha, making sure that the teacher would be permitted to stay with her charge. Then he made a bee-line for the restroom. Up until now he'd had the facility to himself. Overcome by another bout of retching, he thought, 'I could do without an audience.'  
  
When he was able to pause for a breath, a voice outside the stall asked, "Need any help, Dr. Romano?"  
  
Robert rasped, "Go away," before it occurred to him to question who, at Mercy Hospital, would be addressing him by name. Then he put it together - the voice was Chuck's.  
  
Clearly unperturbed by Romano's rude dismissal, Chuck said, "I'll check back in a while to make sure you're still alive. I'm putting up the out-of- service sign so nobody else bothers you."  
  
The door opened and closed, and Robert was alone again. His memories of the last hour were choppy, like an old movie reel, scenes cut across by the shadow of the propeller overhead, sounds distorted, disconnected. He recalled sitting in the helicopter, holding Kiesha on his lap as the nurses put in an IV. He knew he must have been completely useless, from a medical standpoint. But at least he hadn't done anything too embarrassing, like puking in-flight. He shivered as a moment of abject horror came back to him: getting off the chopper and catching sight of the tail rotor. Chuck must have pulled him along.  
  
'Yeah, let's try to remember everything in vivid detail - that'll help,' Robert sneered, as the vomiting progressed into dry heaving. After 10 minutes of that, he was shaking with exhaustion. The pain in his head and stomach were making him dizzy, and the dizziness ratcheted up his anxiety level. He slumped against the side of the stall and closed his eyes.  
  
Robert hadn't heard the door open, so he was startled to hear Chuck's voice announce, "It's me again."  
  
He wasn't as annoyed at the other man's presence as he thought he should be. Right at this moment, feeling shaky and out-of-control, a small part of him wanted company - though, of course, he would never admit it. Having somebody nearby, but not actually within sight, was a good compromise.  
  
Unfortunately, Robert figured that Chuck would either sit there quietly, which would be awkward, or, even worse, would try to engage him in conversation between bouts of retching. Instead, the flight nurse launched into a long meandering story about a road trip across the southwest. Calling it a "story" was generous. It was really more like a series of off- color jokes strung together with surreal transitional events, the kind of narrative that makes much more sense when one is stoned.  
  
Twenty minutes - and some truly bizarre happenings in Arizona and New Mexico - later, the dry heaving had subsided and Romano asked in a lightly mocking tone, "If I come out, will you stop talking?"  
  
"Maybe. Maybe not. I'm just getting to the good part," Chuck replied amicably. His pager buzzed, and he added, "Whoops - you're in luck. Gotta answer a page. I'll be back in a few. I left some stuff for you on the counter." Then he was gone.  
  
Robert managed to rise to his feet, leaning against the wall of the stall as he pushed himself up. Opening the door, he felt insanely grateful when he saw that Chuck had left him a small bottle of Listerine, as well as a set of scrubs. Although his clothes had come through the ordeal surprisingly unsplattered, his shirt felt cold and clammy from perspiration. Also, his trembling muscles were sending false signals to the Utah arm, so that had to go too. Slowly, he took off his shirt and removed his prosthesis, then put on the scrub top. It was a good thing there was a bench in the restroom - he doubted he would have been able to stand up long enough to complete the task.  
  
After resting a few minutes, he retrieved his lab coat from the stall and put it on. As he was rinsing out his mouth with Listerine, Chuck came back. The younger man smiled and said, "Where were we . . ?"  
  
Robert shook his head and laughed softly. "I should go check on my patient. Pedes is this floor, on the other side, right?"  
  
"Yup," Chuck confirmed. Then, appraising Romano he added, "You sure you're OK now?"  
  
"Yeah, fine. Hangover without the fun part," Robert quipped confidently. Afterwards, more awkwardly, he mumbled, "Thanks."  
  
"No problem," the nurse shrugged. As they left the restroom, Chuck found a plastic bag in the maintenance closet and handed it to Robert to hold his shirt and artificial arm. He also put the service sign back in the closet. Chuck's apparent familiarity with the available supplies prompted Robert to joke, "What - do you moonlight as a janitor?"  
  
Chuck smirked and replied, "Nah - Suze and I went through a sex-in-public- restrooms phase." Then, looking embarrassed at the inappropriateness of this comment, he added, "Which, OK, maybe isn't something I should be telling her boss . . ."  
  
"Never mind," Romano reassured him, "I plan on repressing this whole day."  
  
*****  
  
'I'm not going to make it,' Robert thought, as he stared down the corridor toward the Pediatrics unit. Vision too blurry to read the signs on the walls, he confirmed his location by the aggressively cheerful colors that heralded Pedes units everywhere.  
  
When he parted with Chuck outside the restroom, he wasn't feeling too bad - tired and sore, but nothing he couldn't handle. That was before he tried doing something strenuous, like walking. The journey from the restroom to the place he now stood should have taken five minutes. Instead, it took twenty, and left him barely able to stand.  
  
He gripped the railing along the wall and forced himself to move forward, motivated by a strong desire to avoid the humiliation of being found crumpled in the hallway. A cold wave of dizziness made him shiver uncontrollably and reduced his vision to shades of gray as he traversed the last few yards into the unit. One of the first doors he came upon was a visitors' lounge. He stumbled inside and collapsed onto the end of the couch, leaning heavily against the upholstered arm. He was acutely aware of his heart pounding loud and fast as he passed out.  
  
*****  
  
Some time later, Robert felt hands lifting him upright and removing his lab coat. A stethoscope was pressed against his chest; a BP cuff on his arm followed. When they tried shining light into his eyes, he pulled away and told them, "Leave me alone." Only he didn't think it came out as clearly as that, or even as words. But he must have gotten his point across, because they went away and let him sleep.  
  
*****  
  
Later, more hands. These were familiar, and accompanied by an insistent voice:  
  
"Robert, wake up. Can you hear me? Robert!"  
  
He opened his eyes to find that he was lying on the couch onto which he'd fallen, covered by a blanket, with Elizabeth looking down at him and shaking his shoulder. Flinching at the sudden influx of light to his brain, he turned his face away and moaned, ". . . 'm up."  
  
"Good," she smiled, relieved. She proceeded to listen to his heart and take his blood pressure.  
  
"Somebody already did that," he informed her, then added, "Aren't you at the wrong hospital Lizzie?"  
  
"That was an hour ago. I'm checking it again."  
  
"So, what's the verdict?"  
  
"That you're completely mad," she replied, deadpan.  
  
"Wow. You can tell that with a stethoscope? That's it - from now on I'm calling you down for Psych consults."  
  
Suppressing a grin, she asked, "Any chest pain?"  
  
"Some earlier. Just sore now. I didn't have a heart attack, if that's what you're thinking."  
  
"Because, of course, you can depend on the phantom pain to provide you with that telltale tingling down your left arm," Elizabeth shot back sarcastically.  
  
"Seems like the least it could do," Robert grumbled, turning onto his right side and pushing himself up to a sitting position with some difficulty. He felt light-headed, so he leaned forward, propping his elbow on his knee.  
  
"Well, anyway, I concur. You had a panic attack, not a heart attack. Your blood pressure probably spiked and rebounded. You're actually a little low now. How do you feel?"  
  
"Like crap." An awful realization dawned on him, "Oh, God. They didn't call over to County about me, did they?"  
  
"No. Chuck called Susan and Susan paged me. When you didn't reply to my pages, I came here. I still can't believe you did that! What if you hyperventilated on the chopper?" she scolded. Her tone wasn't entirely negative, however. Pride peeked around the edges of her stern-physician front.  
  
He prodded, "Aw, c'mon, admit it - you're impressed."  
  
"If I say 'yes', will that encourage you to do such a foolish thing again?"  
  
"Hell no," he replied cheerfully, leaning back against the back of the couch, "I'm never doing it again. Doesn't matter who forgot their damn watch. Not even if Pratt and Frank dare me. Not even if the building is on fire . . ."  
  
"Actually, if the building were on fire that might justify . . ."  
  
"Hush, Lizzie, I'm on a roll."  
  
The English surgeon giggled. She'd seen Robert like this before, when he was *really* tired after completing double shifts of back-to-back surgeries. First he got grouchy, then punchy, his typically acerbic wit degenerating into silliness. Honestly, it was kind of cute - as was his obvious desire for her approval, thinly masked by sparring banter. She smiled and said softly, "Yes, I'm impressed."  
  
"You should be," he retorted, laughing.  
  
Elizabeth enjoyed seeing her friend in an up-beat mood, though there was a slightly hysterical edge to his laughter and she noticed that he was starting to shiver. She picked up the blanket, which had fallen to the floor earlier when he sat up, and tucked one end of it behind his left shoulder. Then she sat down on his right side, wrapped her left arm through his right, and draped the rest of the blanket over both of them.  
  
Fully expecting Robert to make some smart-ass comment about their position, Elizabeth waited, poised to reply. Instead he just relaxed against her with a nearly imperceptible sigh, letting the warmth and comfort seep into his body.  
  
Author's Note: OK - that was a bit more intense than usual. Do you like? Please don't hate me for killing off Gretel . . . 


	9. Impulse Control

Two days later . . .  
  
Kerry Weaver stood behind the Admit Desk, feeling awkward at being the center of attention. She wouldn't describe herself as shy. She liked being in charge, having others follow her lead. But, right now, the attention was more personal than she was accustomed to. Instead of looking to her for orders or advice, several ER staff members were looking at pictures of her baby son. Kerry had really only planned on showing the photos to Carter, but he told Abby, and she told Susan, and before Kerry knew it there was a crowd ooh-ing and ah-ing over Henry's chubby little face.  
  
The baby-admirers were distracted by a new arrival: Dr. Romano entered the ER for the first time since his helicopter ride. As he approached the desk, Susan Lewis cheered, "Woo hoo!" Gallant, Abby, and some of the others laughed and clapped good-naturedly. Pratt grinned, calling out, "He came, he saw, he kicked its ass!"  
  
Kerry was struck by the basic decency of the people working in the ER. Despite the secrecy and unusual circumstances surrounding Henry's birth, they all seemed genuinely delighted about him. Well, all except Frank, who at least had the sense to keep his mouth shut. And now, they were willing to extend their good will toward Romano, a man who had devoted himself to torturing them. Regardless of his behavior, they were able to celebrate his (somewhat reckless) personal victory. Kerry hoped that he, and she, would remember this moment the next time an ER staffer screwed something up. Smiling ruefully, she guessed that they probably would not.  
  
Kerry's contemplative smile turned into a wicked grin as she observed the effect the group affirmation was having on her cantankerous colleague. Bright red washed over Robert's face and forehead, darkening to almost mauve on his ears and over his cheekbones. He looked deeply uncomfortable. In all the years she'd known Robert, Kerry had never seen him blush. It was truly a sight to behold!  
  
Pratt snickered, letting Kerry know she wasn't alone in enjoying the ornery ER chief's discomfiture. Their fun was cut short when Robert beat a hasty retreat to the lounge, griping, "Don't you people have any work to do?"  
  
Shortly thereafter, Kerry went into the lounge, hoping to catch Robert before he began his shift. When she entered, he had already hung up his coat and donned his lab coat, and was pouring himself some coffee. She commented, "I heard about your adventure on Monday."  
  
Robert shrugged, obviously not interested in discussing the matter with her. Kerry studied his face and noted that his eyes were framed by dark circles. But as she watched, a mischievous glint emerged in them. He glanced over at the envelope Kerry was holding and asked lightly, "Pictures of the little nipper?"  
  
Kerry nodded. She couldn't bring herself to share the whole roll of pictures with her sometime-nemesis. But she pulled out the top one, her favorite: Henry was sitting in his car seat, smiling, the bright sun bringing out the copper highlights in his dark hair.  
  
Romano smirked and began, "Now, if I was a lesbian lookin' to procreate . . ."  
  
Kerry cut him off with a sigh, rolling her eyes. Was it even possible this sentence would end non-offensively?  
  
"Hey, I know it's a stretch," he conceded, his taunting grin growing, "I was just thinking, since you're no spring chicken, you probably used your little hot-tamale girlfriend's eggs. So, for the sperm donor, you might've tried to pick somebody who looked kind of like you . . ."  
  
Kerry considered threatening him to keep his thoughts far away from her and Sandy's reproductive systems. But she didn't want to dignify his line of reasoning with a response – 'It's like shaking a stick at a yapping dog – it'll only encourage him.'  
  
Robert continued, "You know, maybe someone who could pass for your brother. Fair skin, reddish hair, not too tall, smart, ambitious . . . Hey, maybe even someone in the medical profession! Which sperm bank did you say you used?"  
  
"I didn't," Kerry replied, simultaneously disgusted and amused by his implication.  
  
Robert cocked his head expectantly, as if waiting for her to supply the missing information.  
  
"I'm not going to tell *you*," she snorted.  
  
From Kerry's perspective, the conversation was irritating, yet oddly reassuring – like putting on an old sweatshirt you haven't worn in a long time and feeling the scratch of the tag at the back of your neck. Additionally, the fact that Robert was being such a pain in the ass made the news she had to deliver next more satisfying:  
  
"If you're done with the juvenile innuendo, I need to introduce you to the consultant that Risk Assessment sent to observe in the ER today . . ."  
  
*****  
  
'Piss off one lousy nurse and I get stuck with Mr. Touchy-Feely- Psychobabble-Asswipe!' Robert fumed. Scowling, he recalled the barely concealed smirk on Kerry's face when she introduced them that morning.  
  
Robert had actually been in a good mood when he arrived at work. He was still a bit wired from his experience with the chopper, which meant sleep was hard to come by. But, despite the fatigue, he felt . . . capable. This was who he really was: someone who doesn't take no for an answer, who plows down obstacles, who doesn't let a senseless phobia control him.  
  
His buoyant mood was somewhat deflated by Arnie Nadler, from Risk Assessment. In the past few hours, Nadler had proven himself to be, quite possibly, the most annoying person on the planet. He asked dumb questions at inopportune times, distracting the staff – who were, let's face it, not always the most focused group to begin with. As Robert was named in the lawsuit, Nadler took a special interest in anything he said to his underlings, hovering nearby and making him crazy. 'Hostile work environment . . . I'll show them hostile . . .'  
  
Robert's angry thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of four patients from an MVA: Hummer vs. family sedan. The Hummer driver wasn't too badly off. Mom would be OK. Dad and Junior, not so good. Robert entered the room where Gallant, Abby, and Sam were treating the boy, Ethan. As they confirmed the neck fracture, scalp lac, and internal injuries, Ethan opened his eyes and asked plaintively, "Where's my Mommy?"  
  
Caught off guard, Robert's reply was a curt, "Next door." Sam shot him a dirty look, and Abby soothed, "Your Mommy is in the next room and we're taking good care of her. As soon as she can, she'll come and see you. Your Daddy is here too."  
  
Although Robert appreciated Abby's attempt to comfort the boy, he mused darkly, 'Might as well tell 'im that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are right around the corner – the kid's toast.' He wished that Ethan had never regained consciousness, though he wasn't sure if it was for Ethan's sake or because of his own discomfort at looking into the eyes of a child who would soon die, or, at the least, would be catastrophically disabled.  
  
Ethan wasn't awake for long. As they screwed the tines of the neck brace into his skull, Robert withdrew. It was a two-handed procedure – one to hold, one to screw – so he was useless. His attempts to help out peripherally were met with a protective glare from Sam, as if his unwieldy prosthesis, or his evil intentions, could somehow harm the boy. He would have snapped at her for her attitude, but, recalling her tone when she noted that Ethan was the same size as her son, he decided he didn't want to deal with irate maternalism.  
  
He went out to check on the other patients. Dad was circling the drain, as the trauma team struggled valiantly to get him back. Robert discerned that he would only be in the way in there, too. Elsewhere, Mom was screaming about her family, half of which were dying and the remaining quarter of which, her daughter, was missing in action. Comforting hysterical women was not his strong suit, so he left her to Kovac's ministrations.  
  
Since he couldn't be much help with the critical patients, Robert attended to the non-criticals. He tried to amuse himself by answering all of Nadler's questions with double-entendres, but it didn't work. The guy took everything at face value and seemed to completely lack a sense of humor. He wouldn't know subtext if he sank into it up to his knobby little knees. 'God, he's not even fun to make fun of . . .'  
  
Some time later, Robert approached just as Sam bluntly informed the Hummer driver, Gus, that his dream car had mowed down a family of four. Up until now, the man had been pathetically oblivious, and, as far as Robert was concerned, he could stay that way. 'Hell, they pay us to tell people they have cancer or their wife died. But if it isn't medically relevant, it's not our job to share.' Sam obviously felt otherwise. Idiot.  
  
Predictably, Gus' heart gave out and he dropped to the floor. As Sam sprinted down the hall and brought back the crash cart, Robert crouched next to the fallen man, determined that he had no pulse, and growled sarcastically, "We didn't have enough unstable patients on our hands, so you thought you'd make us one more?"  
  
Dr. Kovac ducked his head out of a nearby trauma room. Robert instructed him, "Stand by for compressions."  
  
Sam, holding the charged paddles, called out "Clear."  
  
Robert removed his hand from the pulse point on the patient's neck and Sam pressed the paddles against Gus' chest. As expected, his body jerked on contact. Unexpectedly, so did Romano's. He stiffened abruptly, let out a breathless "nnnhh" sound, then fell backwards, crashing into a supply cart on the other side of the hall.  
  
For a moment he lay there stunned, his head and shoulders propped against the cart. Sam stepped over him as she confirmed that Gus now had a normal sinus rhythm. Then Sam and Luka looked at each other, trying to figure out what had happened. They smelled burning circuits and it dawned on them: Romano's myoelectric arm must have been in contact with Gus when the current hit. "Dr. Romano, are you alright?" Luka asked.  
  
Romano's eyes were closed, but he curled up onto his right side and began swearing softly, ". . . son of a bitch goddamn it. . ."  
  
"I said 'Clear'," Sam put in defensively.  
  
Romano opened his eyes and glared, "Was I talking to you?" Sitting up, he tried to flex his prosthesis, but nothing happened. Under his breath he whispered, "Fuck . . ."  
  
Noticing the others staring at him, he nodded at the patient and asked Sam caustically, "So, are you gonna get him a gurney, or do you want to try to bump him off via pneumonia next?"  
  
From down the hall came a voice that set all their teeth on edge. Arnie Nadler had heard the commotion and was coming to investigate. "Oh my, what was that?" he inquired of nobody in particular.  
  
Romano flinched, muttered, "God," and abruptly dragged himself to his feet. Ignoring Kovac's words of caution, he gestured for the Croatian doctor to take charge of the patient. Then he brushed past Nadler, his upraised hand and steely expression momentarily deterring the obnoxiously inquisitive visitor from asking any questions, and disappeared down the hallway.  
  
*****  
  
About 15 minutes later, Susan Lewis was in the corridor just off the admit area, making notes on a patient's X-ray. She glanced to the side and was surprised to find Dr. Romano standing next to her. She was actually a bit relieved to see him, having heard about the electric-shock accident. Luka said that Robert didn't appear to be seriously hurt and had walked away on his own power. Still, she had been worried enough to send Gallant looking for him.  
  
Susan joked, "Oh, there you are. I was about to tell Nadler that you were dead and that the rest of us get along just fine – maybe then he would leave us alone."  
  
Romano snorted, "Fat chance." Then, in a tone that was somewhere between a request and a demand, but closer to the former, he added, "Cover for me? I need to get out of here for an hour or two. I'm going upstairs to see if Prosthetics can do anything about this," he nodded toward the Utah arm, "then I want to drop in on a patient over at Mercy."  
  
"Well, I suppose getting electrocuted warrants taking a couple hours off," Susan smiled, "No problem. But I wanna check you out first, make sure you don't have a concussion. Luka wasn't sure if you lost consciousness or not."  
  
Irritably, he replied, "That would be 'not'. I'm fine. You don't need to . . ."  
  
"You know, I could do it in the time it takes you to whine about me doing it," Susan interrupted, taking out her pen-light.  
  
"Fine," he sighed, "Knock yourself out." He cooperated as she had him follow her finger with his gaze then shined the pen-light into his eyes.  
  
"Equal and reactive. Yep, your eyes look normal. Except, of course, for the seething hatred."  
  
Robert chuckled, "Nah, that's my baseline."  
  
Just then, Arnie Nadler walked into view in the Admit area, about 10 yards away. His grating voice was directed at Michael Gallant, who answered his questions with remarkable patience and politeness. Robert closed his eyes, as if trying to block out unpleasant stimuli, and Susan realized that he was probably a bit more upset than he was letting on. Trying to draw him out again, she said dryly, "We've gotta teach that boy how to be rude like the rest of us."  
  
Looking at Nadler, Robert responded, "Hmpf. That's the other reason I have to go. If I don't get out of here for a little while, I think I'm going to deck him. Which, ironically, would probably do wonders for workplace morale."  
  
Susan laughed, and Robert continued, "Unfortunately, it would get me fired . . ."  
  
Grinning, Susan interjected, "Which, ironically, would also do wonders for workplace morale . . ."  
  
Robert made a face at her over his shoulder as he headed toward the elevator. He quipped, "Lucky for me, I don't give a flying fuck about workplace morale. If you don't hate your job, you're not working hard enough!"  
  
*****  
  
Three hours later, Sam was sitting in the meeting from hell. The meeting that would decide whether she could continue at County, or whether she and Alex would be moving on yet again. The meeting that seemed to go on forever . . .  
  
Kicking Dean's ass had been the high point of an all-around sucky day. The prick had let his friends gang rape his girlfriend, and then he had the nerve to grab Sam's arm when she went to report him to the authorities. She recalled with satisfaction the look on his face when she delivered the uppercut that put him down for the count.  
  
Naturally, the dweeb from Risk Assessment got all worked up over the incident. (Hell, he got worked up over a French fry . . .) So, Dr. Weaver had called an emergency meeting to discuss Nadler's concerns. When Romano returned from Mercy – bringing the daughter from the MVA family back with him – he went straight up to the meeting. About half an hour later, Dr. Weaver called down for Sam to join them.  
  
Sam supposed they wanted her to act apologetic. She didn't.  
  
Nadler was agitated, calling for her dismissal, as well as that of about half the ER staff. Dr. Weaver was shrill with irritation – at Sam, but also, increasingly, at Nadler. The Nursing Director clearly wanted to wash her hands of Sam, but she also seemed annoyed with Nadler's meddling. Dr. Romano looked bored and barely participated in the discussion. Really, the only person who made progress toward resolving the situation calmly was a psychiatrist whom Sam had met, briefly, when he was down in the ER for a consult: Dr. De Raad. De Raad validated Nadler's concerns, but gently steered him toward less hysterical conclusions.  
  
Finally, the meeting was over. Or, at least it was over for most of them – Nadler remained in the conference room with Dr. Weaver. Presumably, Dr. Weaver would decide Sam's fate in private.  
  
As they exited the room and proceeded toward the elevators, Romano looked at Sam sternly and said, "I'm very disappointed."  
  
'Can this day get any worse?' Sam thought, 'Bad enough I have to listen to the lecture from Weaver, but I'll be god-damned if I'm gonna hear about impulse control from a guy who gets his jollies groping women!'  
  
She was about to tell him as much, when his serious expression morphed into an enigmatic grin, "Here I was, thinking I'm special. Then it turns out you get physical with *every* guy who lays a hand on you . . ."  
  
As her anger subsided, Sam exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. More nervously than she would have liked, she asked, "Am I going to get fired?"  
  
"I dunno," he shrugged, "Not up to me. My best guess would be no, but we'll probably make you do some horrible penance for your transgression."  
  
Romano was distracted from his path to the elevator by De Raad, who asked him if he had a minute. He nodded and turned to walk toward the psychiatrist. But then he paused, looked back at Sam, and added softly, "The fucker deserved it."  
  
*****  
  
Karl De Raad had been less than thrilled when Kerry had called on him to help out with the Risk Assessment meeting. He didn't know Mr. Nadler or the nurse in question well, and the ER wasn't his responsibility. But, he surmised, Kerry wanted another mental health professional there to balance out Nadler's view. It seemed to work. And, it gave him an opportunity to touch base with Robert, who had been avoiding him. 'He probably agreed to come back to my office so that he can make snide comments about the meeting in private.'  
  
As they entered De Raad's office and sat down, Robert deadpanned, "So, that Nadler – I understand he has a master's degree in occupational psychology. I'm sure you were impressed by his insight into human relations. Really reflects well on your profession."  
  
De Raad smiled and said nothing.  
  
It took about a second for Romano's serious demeanor to crack. He laughed and said, "He's a tool. You've gotta think he's a tool, right?"  
  
Karl chuckled and responded, "You know, it is possible to have a negative assessment of somebody's skills, and not share it."  
  
Robert mock-pouted, "You're no fun."  
  
De Raad continued, grinning, "On a slightly different subject, the recommended treatment for phobias is GRADUAL desensitization. Did you even *do* a psych rotation?"  
  
"Eh, that slow stuff's for wimps," Robert crowed.  
  
"You're a lunatic."  
  
Robert laughed, "Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot, lately. But it's nice to have it confirmed by an expert."  
  
Despite his laughter, there was a tightness to Robert's posture that suggested he might have something more on his mind. So De Raad asked, "How are you doing, you know, afterwards?"  
  
Robert shrugged, "Fine," looking down as he brushed off the inquiry.  
  
De Raad fixed him with his gaze and asked quietly, "Let me guess. You thought after you did this everything would be better, right?"  
  
Robert looked up sharply and retorted indignantly, "Yes!" Then he corrected himself, "No." Finally, he mumbled, "Maybe."  
  
De Raad marveled at how somebody could be so cynical, and yet so naive. Briefly, Robert's guard came down, and the psychiatrist saw him struggling against disappointment and frustration.  
  
In a small voice, very unlike his usual tone, Robert said, "It's not fair."  
  
"No, it's not," Karl agreed.  
  
They sat quietly for a moment. Then Karl said, "Robert, I want you to come see me regularly, to talk.  
  
Romano's response was instantly negative. He raised his hand in a backing- off gesture and shook his head, saying, "I'm not interested in therapy . . ."  
  
"Look, I know your first impulse is to say 'no'," De Raad interjected, "But please fight it. At least think about letting me help you."  
  
Robert protested, "I can manage on my own."  
  
"I know you can," the psychiatrist responded. "You can tough it out. You can go to work every day and force yourself to not back down from things that scare you. Through sheer willpower you can function pretty normally. That's a significant achievement. But I want better for you than that."  
  
"Like what?" Robert asked, his expression wary.  
  
"That depends. What do *you* want?"  
  
For a moment, Robert looked like he was going to shut down and either not respond at all, or else use some distraction tactic to change the subject. But, instead, he blurted out, "I want things to be like they were before all this happened. I want to have a reason, other than spite, to get up in the morning . . ." He trailed off raggedly, fighting for control.  
  
Karl replied gently but firmly, "Your life is never going to be the same as it was before – and I don't just mean your physical capabilities. Making it into something that you think is worthwhile won't be easy, but I believe it can be done. We can work on that."  
  
Robert's eyes were cast downward, studying the carpet; he looked fragile and uncertain. Karl felt bad about causing his colleague distress, but he knew that Robert's bull-headed personality sometimes necessitated a very direct approach. Though stubborn and prone to knee-jerk reactions, Robert had already shown himself capable of making tough choices in dealing with his situation – choices that must have gone against his natural inclinations. Karl hoped he could make one more.  
  
De Raad continued, "You don't have to decide right now. But you do have to decide, not just put it off until procrastination replaces an actual decision. How about you let me know some time this weekend?"  
  
"OK," Robert replied quietly, not looking up.  
  
"You know," said Karl a moment later, lightening his tone, "If you say 'yes' it's not like I'm going to make you lie on a couch and talk about why you hate your mother."  
  
"Hey, I *like* my mother," Robert shot back irritably, but with a trace of humor in his eyes, "And not in some creepy oedipal way, either!"  
  
*****  
  
Author's note: Sorry about the delay – I can't keep up with "February Sweeps"! 


	10. Where you look What you see

Author's Note: ER has been doing strange things with time this season: one episode ("NICU") covered a whole month, 34 days passed between "Impulse Control" and the next episode, and Ella had a freakish growth spurt. That makes it hard to keep my story perfectly in synch. So, let's say this chapter takes place about 3 weeks after the last chapter, a little while before the episode "Forgive and Forget". The next chapter will coincide with "Forgive and Forget". In my world, Ella is still going-on-three years old. I haven't decided whether Susan is pregnant or not.  
  
*****  
  
Saturday morning . . .  
  
'Why exactly did I want to work with this guy?' Karl De Raad thought, smiling wryly.  
  
He was sitting in his den with Robert Romano, during their second therapy session together. The first session had been taken up by Robert's diatribe against psychiatry in general. Karl mostly let him rant, figuring this was something his colleague needed to get out of the way before he could move on. Also, the "discussion" gave De Raad the opportunity to explain the difference between psychoanalysis, which was the target of much of Robert's disdain, and the mostly cognitive approach he had planned.  
  
For the second session, Karl steered the conversation toward what Robert wanted to change in his own life. Still, Robert kept his comments impersonal, bitching about the "mouth-breathing idiots" who staff and frequent the ER. He was relentlessly angry, dissatisfied with everything.  
  
Karl understood that extreme negativity was to be expected from somebody in Robert's psychological state. But such was one of the pitfalls of counseling friends and coworkers: the social connection makes it hard to slip completely into the therapist role. One has to fight the tendency to regard the patient as one would regard him socially, and the concomitant urge to simply tell him to knock it off when he's being difficult. Of course, with this particular patient, the personal connection had an up- side: Karl was quite sure that Robert would not be here without it.  
  
When Robert paused for a moment, Karl said, seemingly out of the blue, "Some people have difficulty expressing anger. For them, doing so in a therapeutic setting can be productive."  
  
Robert looked puzzled, "And your point is . . ?"  
  
"Do you, by any stretch of the imagination, think you have this problem?"  
  
"Hah!" Robert snorted. Then he looked surprised and bemused, "Uh, are you telling me to shut up?"  
  
Karl smiled, "No. If you want to vent a bit, that's fine. Maybe it'll save your poor employees a little stress. But protracted complaining about how everything sucks is probably not the best use of our time."  
  
"Don't give me that 'think-happy-thoughts' crapola . . .," Romano sneered.  
  
"Robert, you were maimed and you lost your life's work. You're supposed to feel bad about that. But a common maladaptive thought process in depression is to perceive only negative occurrences while discounting anything positive that happens."  
  
"I'm not depressed," Robert put in sullenly.  
  
Unwilling to argue the point, De Raad said, "I want you to tell me one good experience you had in the last day or so. Can you do that?"  
  
*****  
  
The previous day: Friday -- 8:07 am . . .  
  
Robert picked up a newspaper and a pack of M&Ms at the newsstand near the El stop closest to his house. Eyeing the weirdly washed out color of the candy package, he grumbled to himself, "Stupid colorless M&Ms promotion – what bonehead thought THAT was a good idea?"  
  
Since the El stop was about a mile from home, Robert usually just drove in to work. But, lately, he was trying to avoid driving in city traffic. Both the Jeep and the Jag had manual transmissions, which were a hassle, especially with the Utah arm still "in the shop". His prostheticist had given him a loaner – a body-powered prosthesis – that he could use to brace the wheel while shifting. But, as Elizabeth had remarked, "That's not even remotely safe."  
  
Thinking of Elizabeth's amusingly appalled tone made him smile. As he handed his money to the girl behind the counter, he added a wink to the smile. The cashier was twenty-something, a little heavy but reasonably pretty, with a tight sweater that showed off her assets admirably. Robert wasn't flirting with her in any serious way; she was too young, and not really up to his pulchritude standards. He just liked the ego-boost when women responded positively to his advances. And when, instead, they got offended – well, that was fun too.  
  
Sweater-girl did neither. Momentarily, fear and revulsion crossed her face as her eyes flicked down toward the counter. She recovered quickly, giving him a weak smile and a "Have a nice day."  
  
Robert took his change, dropped it and the M&Ms into his pocket, then tucked the newspaper under his hook and left without a word.  
  
*****  
  
10:31 am  
  
After sitting through morning lecture and having a quick caffeine/study session with Neela and Lester, Abby Lockhart started her shift in the ER. It was a quiet morning, so far. Abby walked by the exam rooms to see where she could be useful. As she approached Exam 2, she heard a woman's voice raised in an angry tone.  
  
The door opened, as the woman continued, almost yelling, ". . . don't talk to me about 'quality of life'! What do you think we've been doing the last twelve years? We've been making her life as good as possible! And you doctors come in here and tell us . . ."  
  
Dr. Romano, exiting the room, cut her off with, "Someone will be in to discuss your options with you shortly." Then he closed the door behind him. Spying Abby, he shrugged and gave her a "whatever" look. She raised her eyebrows as her lips pursed into a half-smile, and said nothing. After a beat, he barked, "Are you Doctor Abby or Nurse Abby now?"  
  
"I'm a med student until four. Hopefully I won't have to pull any nursing shifts until the weekend."  
  
"Hey, maybe we can get you little buttons that say "D.A." and "N.A." . . .," he teased.  
  
"And how about 'A.A.' – 'Abby Abby' – for the times when I'm not supposed to be working, but you won't let me leave. That way we could cover all the major twelve-step programs," she shot back sarcastically.  
  
Romano laughed, "Ooooh . . . I like it."  
  
"I'm kidding!" Abby put in, realizing that she should know better than to give him ideas. "Or, you know, you could just read the schedule."  
  
Romano dismissed that idea with a wave of his hand, as charged off toward the Admit area.  
  
Abby observed that Dr. Romano seemed to be in a good mood, for now. In the past weeks he'd been vacillating between mocking the staff in an almost friendly way and being nastily critical of everything they did. Though the unpredictability was unsettling, the ER had lived through out-of-control- enraged-Romano and almost-catatonically-withdrawn-Romano. In comparison, moody-cranky-Romano wasn't too bad.  
  
Abby smiled as she caught herself thinking of her evil boss in somewhat affectionate terms. She mused, 'When did I stop despising him?'  
  
She supposed it had been a gradual process and that Susan's tolerant attitude had rubbed off on her a bit. But the turning point had been just after Carter returned from Africa. There John was, with his beautiful new girlfriend and baby-to-be. Everyone was so happy to see him. Susan had offered to hate him for a while, as a best friend should, but Abby told her it was OK, she didn't have to do that. No, Abby was going to suck it up and be mature. When the other staff members saw that she was taking the high road, they followed suit, putting everybody at ease to enjoy the new developments in Carter's life. It was all very adult, very civil.  
  
But there was one glorious exception to all this maturity. Twice, during the short time between Carter's return and the start of Abby's NICU rotation, when speaking to Carter in Abby's presence, Romano had incorporated some particularly cheesy words and turns of phrase from Carter's break-up letter into his speech. His delivery was completely deadpan, the words perfectly integrated into the flow of conversation – so much so that at first Abby wasn't 100% sure it was intentional.  
  
But then Romano had shot her a sideways glance, as if checking to make sure that she knew he was mocking Carter, not her. Carter appeared thoroughly perplexed and uncomfortable. Abby managed to get out of the room before cracking the hell up. It was simultaneously the sweetest and the strangest thing anybody had done for her in a long time. After that, despite Romano's abhorrent treatment of her in the past and continuing rudeness, Abby just couldn't hate him.  
  
From down the hall came a familiar bellow, "Hey, it's 'Doctor Abby', not 'Doorstop Abby' – Let's get a move on!"  
  
'Doesn't mean I can't want to slap him upside his little bald head . . ,' she thought, hurrying to catch up.  
  
Abby and Romano approached the Admit Desk, where Susan Lewis was sorting through charts, passing them off to various residents. Holding out the chart of the patient in the room he'd just left, Romano said, "Got another one for ya."  
  
"Scared kid?" Susan asked gently. Not infrequently, young children got wigged out by Romano's prosthesis, especially when he wasn't wearing a cosmetic hand. Romano was unfailingly decent when that happened – he passed those patients off to other doctors without complaint.  
  
"Uh, no. Pissed off Grandma."  
  
Susan's sympathetic expression hardened into annoyance. "What did you do?"  
  
"She, uh, might have overheard me mention that her darling grandchild has the mental capacity of a cabbage." Romano's expression was slightly sheepish, but Abby got the impression that he wasn't really sorry for the indiscretion.  
  
"Brilliant," Susan scoffed. "Fine, I'll take her. But I'm giving you one of my cases that I hate. Let's see, we've got explosive diarrhea, oozing pustules, homeless guy with . . ."  
  
"I'm not taking any of those," Romano said, his mouth set in an unyielding line.  
  
Susan gave him a dirty look, then her expression brightened, "OK, here's 6- year old twins, skin rash, no fever."  
  
"What's the catch?" Romano inquired, suspicious.  
  
"Oh, nothing. They're just annoying. They've got this creepy 'Village of the Damned' thing going."  
  
Accepting the charts, Romano shrugged, "I can do annoying." Susan and Abby shared a smirk as he turned to head toward the exam rooms.  
  
After stopping off at Romano's locker, where he put the plastic hand covering over his hook, Romano and Abby entered the exam room. Inside was a mother with four children: six year old twin boys and two girls, about 4 and 2 years old. The twins were identical, but really, all four children strongly resembled each other – pale skin, white-blond hair, blue eyes. The boys wore matching clothing, and the girls' clothes were similarly styled and hued.  
  
Reading the charts, Abby presented, "Travis and Trevor spent the weekend with a family friend and came home with a rash – itching, but no vomiting or other signs of illness. Their sisters, Taylor and Tyler, are asymptomatic so far." She had to raise her voice toward the end, as the older of the girls started crying and the younger one banged her shoes on the bottom of her chair.  
  
"The twins can't go back to school until this is taken care of, and my HMO couldn't give me an appointment until next Tuesday," the harried mother explained. She ineffectually hushed the boys, who had begun bickering and trying to step on each other's toes, and added, "I brought Taylor and Tyler too, in case it's contagious." Taylor, the four-year-old, took this as her cue to scream louder, and Mom withdrew with her to a corner of the room, soothing, "The doctors aren't going to give you a shot, honey, it's OK . . ." The two-year-old stayed where she was, contentedly kicking her chair and watching her brothers with owlish eyes.  
  
"Alright," Romano began brusquely, "Which of you is Travis, and which is Trevor?"  
  
"I'm Travis." "No I am." "He's Trevor." *hee hee hee*  
  
"Let's try again: Travis. Trevor." Romano ordered in a stern don't-mess- with-me tone.  
  
More giggling: "I'm Trevor." "So am I." "No you're not."  
  
Abby sighed. Mom was busy consoling Taylor (or was it Tyler?), so she wouldn't be much help. Abby supposed they could just go ahead with the exam and sort the names out later, though she didn't like letting the bratty behavior win out.  
  
Romano addressed the boys, "Fine. Arnold, you sit there. Arthur, show me your rash."  
  
The boys looked confused. One said, "My name isn't Arthur . . ."  
  
Romano repeated his instructions, this time pointing to each of them in turn, "Brandon, sit. Bradley, let me see your rash."  
  
Now they were catching on. 'Bradley' laughed and complained, "I wanna be Brandon."  
  
"Too late, Cornelius," Romano replied, keeping a straight face.  
  
"Who am I?" the other boy pestered.  
  
"Conrad," Romano said flatly, as he examined him. 'Conrad' giggled.  
  
A few minutes later, Romano and Abby had ascertained that 'Milton' and 'Mitchell' had poison ivy. Romano wrote a prescription and told their mother that a nurse would be in if she had any questions about applying the topical treatment. As he left, he nodded at each of the boys, "Trevor. Travis."  
  
Outside the room, walking back toward the Admit area, it hit Abby and she laughed, "You knew who was who all along?"  
  
"Yeah," he grinned, "I was just messing with them. I watched where the baby sister looked when I said their names."  
  
Abby shook her head, smiling. Distracted by another case coming in, Romano tossed out, "Don't trust anybody over thirty . . . months." Then he darted off, leaving Abby once again in his dust.  
  
Abby wondered aloud, "Am I the only one who's not even a little bit surprised that he gets along well with hyperactive children?"  
  
*****  
  
2:31 pm  
  
Susan Lewis studied her patient's lab results as Dr. Romano ran through the woman's surgical needs with Neela and Lester. The patient, an assault victim, had multiple stab wounds, including deep punctures to the abdomen. Since she was an obvious surgical candidate, Susan had paged surgery. They sent down a new-ish resident, Dr. Lotz, whom Romano completely ignored. Flustered, Lotz left in a huff, saying that she would be back in a minute. Susan would have felt more sympathy for her, had Lotz not been a size two with perfect hair. 'OK, I'm shallow. Sue me.'  
  
"Mr. Lester, what do you want to ascertain next?" Romano queried.  
  
"Check for sub-cu air," Lester answered, checking. "Negative," he reported.  
  
"Alright, Miss Rasgotra, how are you going to control the bleeding?"  
  
"Clamp the main artery, and can we put in temporary sutures to . . ."  
  
As Neela spoke, the doors swung open and Dr. Dorsett entered, followed by Dr. Lotz. "You could do that, little lady, but I've got a better idea," Dorsett said cheerfully. Unaware of, or unconcerned by, the hostile glare Romano was shooting his way, Dorsett addressed Lotz, "Let me show you something. Here, give me your hand."  
  
Dorsett guided Lotz's hand to a place inside the patient's abdomen where she could control the bleeding manually. She gazed at him adoringly, enthralled.  
  
Romano, obviously less enchanted by the display, interrupted, "News flash, Don Juan: It's a patient, not a prop to help you pick up chicks."  
  
Ignoring Romano, Dorsett continued, "We'll just be on our way, then."  
  
"The hell you will," Romano said firmly, "Not like that you won't."  
  
"Look, you called for a consult. I'm here. I have the situation under control," Dorsett snapped, "Why don't you just let me do my job and get back to yours?"  
  
"Because you're doing a half-assed job of it, that's why," Romano retorted, sneering. "Transporting the patient like that increases the risk of infection. Plus, your little groupie's never done this maneuver before, so I'm not convinced she'll have full control of the bleeding."  
  
"Doing it this way saves time," Dorsett shot back, "time that we're now wasting discussing the matter."  
  
Carter poked his head in the door and asked, "Is there a problem?"  
  
Nobody answered him. Susan shook her head almost imperceptibly, indicating that he should hold off and not get involved. John seemed to think that Romano-damage-control was his duty. But in this situation, at least, Susan felt his input would be counterproductive: 'We don't need four attendings fighting over one patient.'  
  
Keeping her tone light, Susan interrupted the combatants "OK, enough with the macho pissing contest. How much time are we talking about?" She looked to Romano for a reply, as did Lester and Neela. Carter and Lotz looked to Dorsett. They responded simultaneously,  
  
Romano: "Ten minutes."  
  
Dorsett: "Twenty minutes."  
  
Romano smirked, "If it takes you that long, 'Fast Eddie' is a misnomer."  
  
Susan rolled her eyes. Then she addressed Dorsett, "That's not much time, and the patient is stable. How about we do it the old-fashioned way and get on with our lives?"  
  
Dorsett replied, "It's not your call, any more than it is his," looking over at Romano dismissively.  
  
"Yeah, it is," Romano corrected angrily. "I may not have any say in what procedures you perform later, but it's my business how the patient is prepped for transport before she leaves the unit. If I deem the transport isn't safe – 'cuz, for instance, Barbie Doll's got her hand stuck inside the patient's belly – I'm not releasing her to you."  
  
Addressing Susan, Dorsett appealed, "Is he serious?"  
  
Susan nodded, adding, "And incredibly stubborn." Barely suppressing a smirk, she continued, "If you can't work this out with Dr. Romano, we can always ask your boss, Dr. Corday, to settle it."  
  
As Susan suspected, Dorsett was not keen on that idea. He reluctantly agreed to clamp off the bleeders before transport. Gesturing toward Neela and Lester, he grumbled at Romano, "Dr. Lotz gets to do it, not the med students. That's why I came down here in the first place – you won't let my resident do anything."  
  
Romano smiled with mock-innocence, "I thought you liked medical students, seeing as how you're married to one."  
  
The look on Dorsett's face, and Lotz's, was priceless.  
  
*****  
  
6:22 pm  
  
"Dammit," Robert swore softly, as he dropped a stitch while suturing a long laceration on an elderly woman's arm. His progress was painfully slow. Even with his myoelectric prosthesis, this task would be difficult. Without it, it was next to impossible. But he couldn't bring himself to give up.  
  
A fire in a long term care facility had flooded the ER with casualties, many of the injuries due not to the fire itself, but rather to inept evacuation procedures. After caring for the few critical cases, they were left with numerous patients with mild smoke inhalation, plus lacerations and contusions from their rapid exit. Romano's current charge was among those with minor injuries. Since she was in a persistent vegetative state, she wasn't bothered by how long the procedure was taking. But the delay in closing the wound wasn't good for her, and Romano was acutely aware that they needed to free up the bed for another patient.  
  
Any minute now, he knew, some staff member would creep in here and awkwardly point out the obvious: that Romano should let somebody else finish up. He could save face by handing off the job to someone more capable before that happened. Knowing this did not motivate him to do so. He felt intensely frustrated by his physical limitations as well as by his inability to give in and do the dignified thing for a change.  
  
Additionally, at the moment, he was in quite a bit of pain. Normally, during the day, the phantom pain manifested itself as a dull ache or occasional cramping sensations in his missing limb – annoying, but something he could ignore if he kept himself busy. In the last couple of weeks, however, it had intensified to a moderate ache with intermittent intervals of bone-deep agony. After researching the subject, he had concluded that the worsened symptoms were most likely due to the fact that he did not have the prosthesis to which he'd become habituated. Hopefully the problem would abate when he got his Utah arm back.  
  
Which didn't help much for right now. Right now, he just wanted to go home. And drink. A lot. 'God, I'm not even halfway done with her . . .'  
  
Idly, Robert wondered which staff member would be coerced by the others into doing the dirty deed of prompting him to pass off his patient. He hoped it would be Pratt. He really felt like laying into somebody, and Pratt was always his favorite victim. 'Ah, hell, with my luck it'll probably be Carter.' The young attending would be polite and reasonable, with just a hint of condescending smugness. Robert much preferred Pratt's in-your-face antagonism.  
  
A quiet knock, and the door slowly opened to reveal . . . Neela. Robert groaned inwardly. It wasn't like he never yelled at the girl, but she was his last choice as a rage-target.  
  
Neela made eye contact briefly, her nervous expression changing to concern as she read the distress in her supervisor's eyes. Then she looked down, paused a moment, and smiled shyly as she put a glove on her left hand only. She gazed up at Robert again, walked across the room, and slipped in front of him on his left side. Without discussion, she started using her left hand to do the jobs that his left hand would do: stabilizing the wound, moving the thread when needed, sometimes picking up stitches.  
  
Robert broke into a surprised grin at the unexpected pleasure of being able to sew quickly and freely once again. He looked down at Neela with uncharacteristic warmth. She didn't see his expression. Her eyes were focused on what she was doing, features screwed in concentration. Working in tandem with someone like this was tricky; it would be impractical for complex tasks. Robert noted, amusedly, that it would be tough for him to do it with almost anybody but Neela, who was small enough that he could comfortably see over her shoulder. As his hand flew through the remaining stitches, he could almost hear his favorite British surgeon sarcastically suggesting a stepstool.  
  
*****  
  
Saturday morning – back in De Raad's den . . .  
  
After a short pause, Robert responded to Karl's challenge with a smirk, "I got to bust Dorsett's balls yesterday. That was kind of fun."  
  
De Raad frowned, trying to place the vaguely familiar name, "Dorsett . . ?"  
  
Robert explained, "He's a surgeon. And an ass. Been at county a year or so now."  
  
De Raad sighed, his lips quirking into a smile, "I thought we were trying to get away from spite as a motivator."  
  
"This was more malice than spite," Robert clarified, grinning. As his colleague shook his head in mock-exasperation, he added, "Come to think of it, annoying you is kind of fun too."  
  
"Remember how I said, before, that I wasn't telling you to shut up . . ?" 


	11. Rebounding

Suggestion: You might want to read my story, "Visiting Hours 2: Gallant," before reading this chapter.  
  
*****  
  
The morning of the episode "Forgive and Forget" . . .  
  
Appreciatively, Robert Romano took in the efficient buzz of the OR as he performed a bullectomy on a 68-year-old man with emphysema. The patient maintained good sats and pressure while Robert excised the enlarged air sacs in his lungs, making room for the healthier air sacs to expand.  
  
Surveying the field prior to closing, Robert felt a familiar twinge as he used his left hand to retract the probe. He ignored it, pushing past the pain and focusing on the procedure. 'More suction,' he ordered. Shirley complied.  
  
The nagging ache increased. Robert didn't let himself look down at his hand, afraid of what he would see. 'Be careful,' someone said, 'that's not sterile.'  
  
Robert looked around, trying to find the source of this advice, but it was hard to hear over the loud thumping in the background. It sounded like his own heartbeat, but farther away, hovering ominously outside, surrounding the room.  
  
A sharp pain made him glance down at his left arm. It was a charred mess, barely recognizable as a human limb. He stared at it, not really surprised, yet deeply horrified. Backing off, he whispered hoarsely, 'I don't want to contaminate . . .,' then trailed off, choking on the smell of burnt flesh. He closed his eyes as the thumping got louder, closer, faster . . .  
  
Robert sat bolt upright in bed. "Fuck," he swore softly, running a trembling hand over his face.  
  
After several minutes, he'd collected himself enough to get out of bed. It was 4:30 in the morning and he had to get up at 7, but by now he knew better than to try to go right back to sleep. Were it not raining, he might have gone for a quick run. Instead, he settled for putting on his Utah arm to do some exercises that might calm the phantom pains, and popping a couple of Advil for the sympathetic aches in the parts of his body that actually still existed. Then he removed the prosthesis and took a hot shower.  
  
45 minutes later, he was curled up on the couch with an article about a new diagnostic tool that Neela had asked him about. As he drifted back to sleep, he thought wryly, 'At least this time I got to do a reasonably interesting procedure before everything went to hell. Last time it was an Appy. Kind of a waste of R.E.M. . . .'  
  
*****  
  
At the beginning of the morning shift, Haleh Adams entered the lounge with Chuny and Lydia for their daily ritual of coffee and conversation. Unfortunately, this morning, their retreat was occupied. Dr. Romano was on the phone, yelling at someone from the Department of Child and Family Services: "Yes, I know she was temporarily admitted to the pediatric psych ward at Elgin. The key word here is 'temporary', as in 'subject to change'. She's been there a month now. Why isn't she in therapeutic foster care yet?"  
  
'Better he screams at DCFS than us,' Haleh thought. She felt a little guilty for this reaction, knowing that social workers, like nurses, were the target of much verbal abuse.  
  
A feminine voice on the other end of the phone seemed to be trying to explain something. Romano replied belligerently, "She's freakin' eight years old! How dangerous can she be? . . . Wait – No – Don't transfer me! Hello? No, I spoke to you earlier and you were completely useless."  
  
Scowling, he slammed the phone down. The force of his slam made the receiver rebound from the phone and clatter to the floor. Haleh heard Chuny and Lydia titter as Romano bent to retrieve the phone. He turned on the nurses, snarling, "If you ladies have time for a coffee-klatch, you obviously don't have enough work to do. What, is every female in the so- called 'helping professions' either lazy or incompetent? Get busy!"  
  
Chuny rolled her eyes as she and Lydia headed for the door with Romano close on their heels. Haleh lagged behind, putting her lunch into the refrigerator. As he left the lounge, Romano prodded impatiently, "That means you too, Aunt Jemima."  
  
'No. He did NOT just call me that,' was Haleh's stunned reaction. Before she could even glare, Romano was gone. By the time she exited the lounge, he was halfway down the hall.  
  
Walking in his wake toward the Admit area, Haleh mused that, despite the fact that he'd fired her on his first day in the ER, she usually got along reasonably well with Dr. Romano. In her long tenure as a nurse, she'd learned to ignore rude behavior. Her pride in herself and her profession was not of the prickly sort that needed to be constantly defended. But this time he'd gone too far. 'That boy needs a serious talking to . . .'  
  
Haleh arrived in the Admit area just in time to hear Neela eloquently berate Frank for his bigoted remarks. Haleh was only recently beginning to warm to the young medical student, whose introversion sometimes made her come off as aloof. She smiled as Neela finished, ". . . All I expect from you in the future is silence. Blissful silence."  
  
Romano, obviously enjoying Neela's rant, chuckled, "Aw, isn't she cute when she's self righteous?"  
  
Neela shifted her gaze from Frank to Romano. Although the contempt in her eyes diminished, her voice was still cold as she responded quietly, "Please don't patronize me." Then she turned on her heel and left to attend to her patient.  
  
Frank, clearly unfazed by the verbal lashing, smirked, "Must be somebody's time of month."  
  
"Shut up, Frank," Romano growled. He seemed perturbed for a moment, frowning at the disapproval that didn't quite leave Neela's expression when she looked from Frank to him. Haleh scoffed inwardly as, instead of trying to analyze the possible reasons for this disapproval, Romano immediately took his discomfort out on the nearest target, "What the hell are all these boxes doing here?"  
  
Frank explained, "Dr. Weaver decided to have the old residency applications for the past 10 years boxed up . . ."  
  
"And, naturally, they have to be sitting right here, in the way. Is Weaver just *looking* for new ways to piss me off? No, don't answer that, of course she is." He grabbed some charts and stalked off before Frank could reply.  
  
*****  
  
A few hours later, Michael Gallant sat near the board, looking up a differential diagnosis in one of the reference volumes. For a change, the ER was not busy – thanks mostly to the tank-wielding madman circling outside. Between duties, many staff members clustered near the television, following the bizarre drama as it unfolded. Dr. Romano threw out the occasional gripe about "slackers worshiping the boob tube," but with few patients and ample staff to care for them, he really didn't have much to complain about.  
  
Gallant had seen tanks up-close on many occasions, so he was a less entranced than his colleagues and could use the down-time more productively. He looked up from his research as a detective from the Chicago PD arrived in the ER, along with an agitated Kerry Weaver.  
  
Dr. Romano, standing by the board, greeted, "Hey Kerry, wouldn't it be nice, just once, to turn on the TV and see a hospital-related disaster that DIDN'T take place at County? I mean, don'tcha think Mercy and Northwestern are due for an explosion or a plague of locusts or something?"  
  
Dr. Weaver snorted, "Yeah. Why should we have all the fun?" before resuming her dour expression.  
  
The detective explained that the police were deploying roadblocks to protect the hospital from the tank. Any reassurance this plan might have offered crumbled when the tank appeared on the TV screen, easily trampling the roadblock cars.  
  
Glancing around, Gallant saw disappointment on his colleagues' faces. Dr. Romano, naturally, was openly derisive: "You people call that a roadblock? Two puny cars? Hey Frank, I figured out what you can do with those damn boxes. Morris, help Frank build a barricade in the ambulance bay."  
  
"No, thank-you," Frank responded, without diverting his admiring gaze from the television, "By the way, your niece called. She wants you to call back if you don't get squished."  
  
Dr. Weaver shot an embarrassed glance at the police detective and sighed, "Robert, stop ordering our employees to their deaths."  
  
The detective went on to tell the gathered crowd that they hoped to use a succession of roadblocks to force the tank driver to run out of gas. This proposal was met with a resounding lack of enthusiasm, especially from Morris, who, Gallant noted, looked much more alert than usual.  
  
As the detective left and the crowd broke up into murmuring cliques, Abby put in, "They're also bringing in a helicopter with a giant magnet."  
  
Gallant was stunned at the hope that flashed across Morris' face: 'He really doesn't get it, does he?' Momentarily, the murmuring stopped, as everybody paused for a moment to gape at Morris' gullibility, then went back to their conversations.  
  
Dr. Romano snarked at Abby, "Great idea – that way the weight of the tank can drag the chopper down to the ground and it can land on my . . . car. Yeah, thanks Abby, I needed that mental image."  
  
Abby smirked in response to Romano's light flippant tone, but Gallant, sitting closer to the ER Chief, noticed his eyes cloud with anxiety. The televised coverage picked that moment to show a view of the tank from the vantage point of the news helicopter – complete with prominent audio of whooshing rotors. Romano blanched.  
  
Hoping to provide a distraction, Gallant asked Romano, "Your niece who called – is that Jessie?"  
  
Romano replied, "Huh? Yeah, Jessie. Oh, that's right, you met her. Bunch of colleges in Chicago are doing a program next week for high school students on spring break. Jess is attending, though she's convinced it will be 'lame'." He said the last word in the dismissive tone favored by many teens.  
  
"Does she visit often?" Gallant inquired.  
  
With an expression both rueful and mischievous, Romano answered, "Mmm, no. Jess likes to make people crazy. For some reason, her folks seem to think I'm a bad influence on her in that regard."  
  
"I can't imagine why." Abby put in sarcastically.  
  
Ignoring Abby, Romano went on, "She stayed with me for a couple of weeks last summer, after I got out of the hospital and her school was out. I wasn't supposed to drive after the surgery; Jess had just gotten her permit and would've driven from the garage to the mailbox if her parents let her. So that worked out well. Had to teach her to drive a stick, though . . ." He had a far-away look in his eyes and was smiling softly as if lost in the memory.  
  
Gallant laughed, "Um, I'm fairly certain that when your doctor tells you not to drive after surgery, that means you're not supposed to give driving LESSONS either."  
  
"Actually," Romano quipped, "Being heavily medicated and physically unable to grab the wheel from the passenger seat – these are probably assets when driving with teenagers."  
  
Gallant grinned at the change in Romano's attitude: when he spoke about his niece, he seemed almost human.  
  
Romano continued, "Normally she takes the train, but now she's trying to get me to drive up Friday night and bring her back here with me Saturday, and she won't explain why."  
  
"Maybe she just wants to drive back?" Gallant offered.  
  
"Nah, she's a devious little brat. She's up to something," Romano concluded fondly.  
  
*****  
  
The following Monday afternoon . . .  
  
As Morris looked on, John Carter deftly threaded the plastic tube into the patient's throat. "It's in," he announced, then directed the resident, "OK, bag her."  
  
Carter watched with satisfaction as the patient's pulse-ox climbed to an acceptable level. Leaving the room, he nodded to Morris, "She's all yours."  
  
Morris had run into trouble intubating his patient. Romano came on the scene first, but he couldn't do the job himself one-handed, and his attempt to "talk" – that is, viciously harass – Morris through the procedure was a dismal failure. So Carter had to step in. He couldn't completely fault Romano, as Morris was not the most skillful resident John had seen. But belittling the guy during a procedure certainly wouldn't help. And sulkily leaving the room when Carter took over, as Romano had done, was hardly setting the best example for the students and residents.  
  
'Heck, he's going to hate me now anyway; might as well talk to him about Mr. Dawson's meds,' Carter decided, referring to a patient whose prescription Romano had botched earlier.  
  
John had to admit that Romano's error rate had improved considerably. Thinking back to when he left for Africa, he remembered Romano as a raging lunatic who didn't know what he was doing, didn't want to learn, and didn't care how many patients suffered as a result. If anyone but Kerry had put such an incompetent and unstable person in charge of the ER, Carter would have taken it as an insult to the importance of emergency medicine. As it was, he believed Kerry when she admitted that she didn't have any other place to put Romano at the moment, and he took it as a compliment to the rest of the ER staff that Kerry thought they could compensate for their chief's failings.  
  
Romano had apparently learned a lot in the past year, and was now, in Carter's estimation, marginally competent in most areas of emergency medicine. But he was still bitter, insensitive, and lacking in social skills, and he took correction terribly. Additionally, the sorts of activities that were most appropriate given his physical and experiential limitations – the commonplace medical cases rather than tough cases or traumas – he regarded as beneath him.  
  
Furthermore, though Romano rarely seriously endangered patients' lives nowadays, he still made enough errors that Carter felt the need to check up on him, which was awkward for both of them. Carter resented having to keep an eye on somebody who was supposed to be his superior. And, judging by his reactions, Romano resented the supervision.  
  
Carter looked in Exam 3, where Romano often went to do paperwork. The door was open, the light was on, and the ER chief was sitting at the table near the wall. Carter started to enter, when he realized that Romano wasn't alone. Haleh stood to his right, speaking in a low, clear voice: ". . . I been a nurse for almost 30 years, 24 of them right here at County . . ."  
  
"What do you want, a medal?" Romano interrupted. Carter snickered to himself, 'Wow – that was childish even for him.'  
  
"I've got seniority. I can transfer to any almost any department I want to. Now, I like working the ER; it's been my home for a long time. I can even live with the fact that you're incredibly arrogant and look down on nurses."  
  
Romano prompted irritably, "So, what's your problem?"  
  
"If you can't address me proper, I'm leaving. I'm sure I won't be the last to go."  
  
Romano looked surprised, then amused. "That's all?" he asked. Haleh nodded.  
  
Noticing Carter in the doorway, Romano acknowledged him with a glance, then said to Haleh in a mocking tone, "How, exactly, do you want me to address you?"  
  
Taking Carter's arrival as her cue to exit, Haleh replied, "Your mama raised you right, you'll figure it out." With a straight face but a twinkle in her eyes, she nodded at both men and left the room.  
  
Romano scowled at Carter, who was grinning ear-to-ear, and groused, "You finished with Tank Boy?"  
  
Carter could tell that Romano wasn't too angry. Yet. "Uh huh," he answered, "But I need to talk to you about Mr. Dawson . . ." He went on to explain why the particular course of medications that Romano had prescribed was inappropriate, given the patient's history of vascular disease. Dawson was still waiting on a blood glucose test, so there was time to change the meds.  
  
As Carter spoke, Romano narrowed his eyes and fidgeted with some papers on the table. His behavior conveyed boredom and hostility. Finally, without admitting that he was wrong, he grudgingly agreed to substitute the medications Carter suggested.  
  
Then, out of left field, he hit Carter with, "I can't believe you turned down a surgical residency for *this*. What happened? Did you realize you weren't going to cut it in surgery and figure you'd settle for being the big fish in a pond of small talents? I don't get it."  
  
Carter smiled wryly, surmising that there was an actual question buried within the insult. Romano was probably just being a jerk, trying to get back at Carter for showing him up. But there was an intense look in his eyes that made Carter want to try to answer him. He replied, "I liked surgery as a technical exercise. But I wanted to have more meaningful relationships with my patients . . ."  
  
Romano rejected this reason with a dismissive wave, "Give me a break. You work in a busy urban ER. Except for a few regulars – mostly pungent homeless losers – you see patients for maybe 20 minutes, then never see them again. Marcus Welby you ain't."  
  
Carter frowned, frustrated. He knew that his decision had been the right one for him. Emergency Medicine let him connect with his patients in a way that surgery did not. But it was hard to explain why, even to himself. And, while Romano appeared strangely desperate for some kind of answer, he wasn't able to actually listen – charitably – to an explanation that wasn't cut and dry. In fact, Romano now seemed to be trying to dodge the discussion, though he'd started it himself, by bounding off toward the Exam room door.  
  
Following his supervisor out into the Admit area, Carter offered, "At least the patients are conscious."  
  
"You say that like it's a good thing," Romano deadpanned.  
  
Carter laughed at the self-parody, hoping fervently that it WAS self- parody.  
  
*****  
  
Three hours later . . .  
  
Susan Lewis arrived for her evening shift, 10 minutes late, flustered, and queasy. She stopped by the Admit desk, where Jerry and Sam were entertaining a visitor: Frank's daughter, a good-natured woman with Down Syndrome whom Susan had met briefly a few days ago.  
  
"Hello, Dr. Lewis," Jerry greeted. "Frank's wife is visiting him in ICU, and Janey wanted to see where her Dad works, so we're giving her a little tour."  
  
"My Daddy stand right here. He answers the phone," Janey offered proudly. She mimicked picking up the receiver, saying, "This's County General, how can I help you?"  
  
Susan smiled, noting that Janey's phone manner was much nicer than her father's, and wondered, 'How could Frank have produced such a pleasant offspring?' As she chatted briefly with Jerry and Janey, Susan was peripherally aware of another conversation going on at the other end of the Admit desk: A girl was talking to Gallant, her elbows propped on the desk, red curls tipped with green bouncing as she cocked her head up toward him, saying, ". . . So, suppose I know I'm going to have an emergency. Can I make an appointment instead of having to wait, like, 12 hours?"  
  
"If you know about it in advance, that kind of means it's not an 'emergency', right?" Gallant replied. From his tone, Susan could tell he was kidding around, not having a serious medical discussion.  
  
Tauntingly, the girl suggested, "Alcohol. Poisoning."  
  
'Is anybody around here actually working?' Susan grumbled, then caught herself, 'Oh God, I sound like Romano. Plus, it's not like I've picked up a chart yet either . . .'  
  
She proceeded into the lounge to deposit her coat. Spying Robert at his locker she whined, "I know. I'm late. Don't start with me. Whoever named it 'morning sickness' must've been a man. If they called it as it is – 9 months of 24-hour crippling nausea – we'd never let 'em knock us up."  
  
"And good evening to you to Dr. Lewis. You forgot to mention the hormone induced psychosis . . .," Romano smirked.  
  
Susan made a face at him. Then, noticing that he was gathering his things to leave, she commented, "You're actually leaving more-or-less on time today."  
  
Romano glanced around the lounge, which was empty except for them, then shot back dryly, "Yeah, uh, I've gotta get home before the latest addition to my household eats the couch."  
  
Susan stared at him blankly for a moment, then, noticing that he was barely containing a silly grin, she figured it out. "You got a dog!" she exclaimed gleefully. "When? How?"  
  
"Well, my niece kind of ambushed me. She got me to go with her to this doggie-rescue-group lady's house. They showed me a 5-month-old Bouvier-mix pup and Jessie guilted me about how sweet he was and how bad the prospects are for big dogs who don't get adopted young."  
  
"You didn't have to say 'Yes'," Susan teased.  
  
"Yeah, I did."  
  
Susan asked, "How come?"  
  
"Because he's *really* sweet and big dogs don't do well if they're not adopted young," Romano admitted sheepishly, obviously smitten.  
  
Susan laughed at his little-boy smile, tickled by the fact that her hard ass boss could, on rare occasions, be a complete push-over. "What's his name? Do you have pictures?"  
  
"His name's Rupert – they named him after a big shaggy guy on a TV show. And, yes, Jess took some pictures."  
  
"Lemme see!" Susan demanded.  
  
"I didn't bring them to work," Robert explained, as if that should be obvious.  
  
"Have you seen my locker? It's like a shrine to Twopper."  
  
"Yeah, but you're a GIRL," Robert mocked.  
  
Laughing, Susan retorted, "Hmmm . . . I don't know if I should be offended at your sexism, or flattered that as I pass the big three-five somebody still thinks of me as a girl . . ."  
  
He started to speak, undoubtedly ready to supply an obnoxious comment that would settle the matter, but Susan cut him off, grinning, "You know, Robert, on those rare occasions when you accidentally manage not to piss somebody off, maybe you should just go with it."  
  
*****  
  
Author's Notes: Thanks to all my kind reviewers! TV-crazy, I'm glad you like my unusual word choices. One of the joys of writing from the perspective of highly verbal people like Robert, Neela, and Elizabeth, is that I can let my underutilized vocabulary come out to play.  
  
I saw "The Student" last week -- Aaaaah! When did Neela become a 4th year med student? I thought she was 3rd year. I'll have to slightly revise Chapter 7 accordingly. Otherwise, I don't plan on including the events of this episode. As you can tell from this chapter, Susan is pregnant. But she's not as far along as she seems to be on the show. I'm assuming that she was not pregnant in late November, when Chuck suggested making a few "dependents". Thus, she shouldn't be due 'till September.  
  
Sorry about the slow updates. I'm a perfectionist :-) 


	12. orientation

This chapter takes place at the time of "Where There's Smoke." Neela and Gallant's Demerol fiasco never happened. Susan is pregnant, but only five months (or so) along.  
  
XXXXXXXXXX  
  
"I know what it's like to be the best. Now, I can't do half the procedures. I'm not even average. Am I supposed to just accept that? I don't think I can."  
  
Karl De Raad sat in Robert Romano's living room, listening to the other man talk. At the beginning of the session, he'd observed that Robert seemed relatively calm and happy. With his new puppy alternating between skidding across the hardwood floor after toys and draping himself across Robert's lap on the couch, the ex-surgeon was able to let down his defenses a bit and consider issues that were outside his comfort zone. Such as what the hell he wanted to do with the rest of his life.  
  
De Raad replied, "I don't think you can either."  
  
Romano scoffed, "Well, that's encouraging. So, I'm supposed to not accept it and be miserable?"  
  
"There might be other options, besides resigning yourself to mediocrity or banging your head against the wall," Karl suggested.  
  
"You know I hate it when you say cryptic shit like that."  
  
Smiling, Karl explained, "What I mean is, most people can't be the very best in their field of choice, yet many are satisfied with their lives."  
  
"Yeah, they're losers who don't know any better, or else they're deluding themselves."  
  
Karl sighed at his colleague's glib dismissal of the coping strategies of the bulk of the human race.  
  
"No, I'm serious," Robert said, "I'm surrounded by people like that – so-so doctors who convince themselves they're special: Pratt thinks he's hot 'cuz he takes risks; Carter thinks he's wise; Kovac thinks he's gonna save the world."  
  
"Hmmm . . . somehow we seem to have drifted over to the topic of putting down your co-workers."  
  
"What can I say? It's a hobby," Robert smirked.  
  
Reorienting him, De Raad began lightly, "OK. I understand that you want to be the best of the best, and have all us lesser mortals bow before you . . ."  
  
Robert chuckled, "Now you're getting it."  
  
". . . That's what you want. But what do you need? For example, could you be satisfied with being useful – being part of a system that produces good results?"  
  
Robert shook his head, "Nope. Cog in the machine? Not enough for me."  
  
De Raad wasn't surprised. It would be easier on Robert if he could identify with the success of the medical team as a whole and take satisfaction from his supervisory role in the process. But, given his egotistical personality, such an attitude shift might not be feasible. The psychiatrist asked, "So, what would be enough?"  
  
With a wry grin, Robert said, "I'm liking that 'everybody bows before me' scenario . . ."  
  
Karl returned the smile, but wouldn't let him off the hook that easily. He waited for a real answer. Meanwhile, the dog plopped his chin on Robert's knee. Robert looked down and petted him, murmuring, "Good boy, Rupe." Finally, after a long moment, he said softly, "I need the patients to be OK because of me. I need to be the one who saves them when nobody else can."  
  
"Having competent colleagues might be an obstacle to that," Karl teased gently, "If they can save the patients too . . ."  
  
"Not much of a problem at County, where competence is in short supply," Robert quipped. Then he went on more thoughtfully, "Alright, I guess it doesn't have to be 'me or the morgue'. But I need it to be that the patients are better off having me than having another doctor. And not in some piddley way, like they have another hour or two to wank away at home, since I push the staff to dispo faster."  
  
De Raad responded, "Not sure I buy into your picture of medicine as a competitive sport, but that's a good start. Can you think of situations . . ."  
  
Looking away, Robert interrupted, "There's something I've been kicking around trying. Maybe not permanently, just to see how it goes . . ." he trailed off, uncharacteristically awkward.  
  
"What?" Karl encouraged.  
  
"You have to promise not to laugh . . . much."  
  
XXXXXXXXXX  
  
Just before the beginning of the morning shift, Greg Pratt was engaged a battle that had taken days to arrange. After some synchronizing of schedules and moving of furniture, Pratt, Gallant, and Jerry sat on the couch facing a table with three chess boards on it. Lester stood across from them, going from board to board, playing three games at once.  
  
"Check," came Lester's gravelly voice, addressing Jerry. Jerry pouted as he made his counter-move.  
  
Romano entered the lounge, sneered at the set-up, and said to Lester, "You've got two minutes to whup them."  
  
Looking at his watch, Lester replied agreeably, "OK."  
  
"No way, man," Pratt bragged, "This time we've got you surrounded."  
  
"One monkey at a typewriter, three monkeys at typewriters," Romano commented dryly, "You still won't get Shakespeare."  
  
In a fluid motion, Lester made a move on each board, saying to the cadence of 'Duck, Duck, Goose,' "Check, Check, Mate."  
  
Lester smiled at his own joke. Pratt sensed that the weird medical student was just amusing himself, not mocking the others. Romano, on the other hand, was clearly mocking them as he snorted and left the room.  
  
A few minutes later, Pratt followed, contemplating what loathsome task he could assign to the thrice victorious Lester. His thoughts were interrupted by EMTs bringing in a group of patients: two men in their 50s and a woman in her 40s. Apparently, Mr. Eviccio had surprised Mrs. Eviccio in bed with Mr. Saunders. The ensuing melee had been complicated by the fact that Mr. Eviccio was a triple amputee and Saunders was a double amputee. All three ended up with lacerations and contusions. And Mr. Eviccio's hook prosthesis was protruding from Mr. Saunders' chest.  
  
"Heh," Pratt snickered toward Romano, "Bet you hadn't thought about its potential as a weapon."  
  
"I'm thinking about it now," Romano shot back, glaring pointedly at Pratt.  
  
Pratt thought he detected a trace of humor in his supervisor's tone, but it was hard to tell. Then, he got to watch something that never failed to entertain: Romano not getting what he wants. Dr. Weaver was on the phone behind the desk, talking to her girlfriend – something about schedules and pumping. As Romano handed off cases to the residents, he was trying to get Weaver's attention. But, despite his attempts to interrupt, Weaver ignored him and focused on her conversation.  
  
When Dr. Weaver finally got off the phone, Romano addressed her snidely, "If you're done playing house, I need to talk to you."  
  
"Talk quickly. I'm late for a meeting."  
  
"Not here," he clarified.  
  
Dr. Weaver answered irritably, "You know what, Robert? If you want a private meeting you can make an appointment like everybody else."  
  
She turned and crutched toward the elevator, leaving Romano fuming behind her. Pratt quickly split for an exam room with his charts, before Romano had a chance to take his frustration out on him. With any luck, the ER chief would find another sucker to pick on. Heading down the hall, Pratt laughed as he heard Romano laying into Morris.  
  
45 minutes later, Pratt had dispoed most of his first batch of patients, and was waiting on a consult for the last one. He approached the admit area, where Chuny and Sam were behind the desk, watching the door to the nearest exam room, cackling quietly. Curious, Pratt asked, "What's up?"  
  
"Romano's in there with Mrs. Eviccio," Sam supplied, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face.  
  
Confused at what was supposed to be funny about this, Pratt said, "The cheatin' wife? A few cuts and bruises, right? I don't get it."  
  
"Don't you think it's kind of strange how she ended up with two guys who are, you know, missing parts?" Chuny prompted.  
  
"They're both vets, right? Did they serve together? Sleeping with your old man's buddy isn't that unusual," Pratt reasoned.  
  
"Nope. They didn't even know each other until this morning," said Sam.  
  
At Pratt's puzzled look, Chuny blurted out, "The lady's got a thing for amputees. Like a fetish or something." She broke off giggling, "Stumps make her horny."  
  
"She told you this?" Abby asked, frowning as she approached the group.  
  
"Oh yeah. More than I wanted to know," Chuny laughed.  
  
"So, we got Morris to pass her off to Romano," Sam put in, smirking, "Want to bet she hits on him?"  
  
Pratt whistled, "That's cold," his tone conveying ambivalent admiration for their scheme.  
  
"What?" Chuny retorted, "He gets lucky, maybe he'll leave us alone a bit."  
  
Shaking his head, Pratt countered, "Robo-doc ain't even comfortable with homosexuality. . ."  
  
Just then, Dr. Corday walked over to Pratt and reported on the patient for whom he'd requested a consult, "Mr. Mather's belly is benign. He doesn't need surgery." After a beat she asked, "What's everybody staring at?"  
  
Abby looked away, maybe fearing guilt by association in the eyes of the surgeon, who was known to be the closest thing Romano had to a friend. Pratt had no such qualms. Gesturing at Sam and Chuny, he answered, "They sicced an amputee fetishist on Romano."  
  
Before Elizabeth could respond, the exam room door opened. Out walked Mrs. Eviccio, followed by Dr. Romano. Even from a dozen feet away, Pratt could tell that Romano was creeped out. The older doctor's gaze was cast down, none of his usual bravado evident in his posture. When he glanced up briefly, Greg saw revulsion in his eyes, only some of which was directed outward toward his patient. Pratt couldn't blame the nurses and Morris for wanting to get back at Romano for the shitty way he treated them. But, personally, he preferred pissing the guy off to making him feel like a freak.  
  
Mrs. Eviccio turned back and re-approached Romano, asking about when her husband would be released. Even though the woman wasn't standing very close to him, Romano visibly recoiled and stammered a little as he answered her. Chuny and Sam snickered; Abby looked pensive.  
  
Pratt jumped when Dr. Corday abruptly dropped the chart she was carrying onto the counter, gave Sam and Chuny an icy British glare, then headed directly toward the pair on whom all their attention was focused. She walked right up to Romano and Mrs. Eviccio, interrupting politely, "Pardon me."  
  
As the others watched, Elizabeth grabbed Romano by the lapel of his lab coat, pulling him slightly toward her. When he tilted his face up in surprise, she kissed him, full on the lips. By the time they broke apart, Mrs. Eviccio had walked away, bewildered, and the onlooking staff were laughing their asses off.  
  
Grinning broadly, Romano said, "I don't know what you've been smoking, but keep it up."  
  
"You owe me. I'm calling you the next time I'm stuck on a bad blind date," Elizabeth replied, her eyes bright with mischief.  
  
As the two doctors walked off together, chuckling companionably, Pratt overheard snatches of their retreating conversation:  
  
Corday: "You're not going to believe what Weaver just dropped on me without any warning. It's like she took a page out of the Romano Book of Psychotic Management."  
  
Romano: "I left a copy in her desk . . ."  
  
When they were gone, Chuny smiled smugly, as if she'd planned the whole thing, and said, "Told you he'd get lucky."  
  
XXXXXXXXXX  
  
A few hours later, Robert and Abby were talking with a young patient and his parents. The boy, Justin, had arrived in anaphylactic shock, after having lunch at Red Lobster. A dose of epi had resolved the reaction.  
  
"Looks like you're allergic to seafood," Romano told his patient. Then, to the parents, he added, "He's fine for now. I'll give you a prescription for an emergency dose of the same medication we gave him today. Follow up with an allergist."  
  
Justin whined, "I don't want to be allergic to anything."  
  
"Uh, you don't really think I can just cross it off your chart and make it go away, do you?" Romano asked in a mildly sarcastic tone. He wasn't trying to be mean to the kid. After all, it must suck to learn that shrimp can kill you. And if you can't be immature about your health problems when you're nine, when can you?  
  
Justin grinned sheepishly. Cocking her head toward Romano, Abby requested, "Please don't encourage him to believe that he's God."  
  
Robert wasn't sure if Justin understood Abby's crack, but the boy laughed at the exaggerated scowl Robert shot in her direction. He was still giggling when Jerry knocked and poked his large frame through the door, saying, "Dr. Romano, they just brought in Sandy Lopez – Dr. Weaver's . . . friend."  
  
Robert headed for the trauma room; he was there when Kerry arrived a short time later. Susan Lewis, running the trauma, gave Kerry the rundown on her partner's condition.  
  
"She wouldn't let us tube her," Robert added, "Seemed to think she had something to say to you that's more important than, oh, BREATHING."  
  
"You were right," Sandy gasped, smiling at Kerry, "He is an asshole."  
  
Robert withdrew to get on the phone to Dr. Anspaugh, telling him that Lopez would be up shortly. He hated having to call on Anspaugh for help, and compensated by being especially rude to the older man. As he hung up the phone, Sandy started crashing.  
  
"She needs to be intubated NOW," Susan insisted.  
  
"I'll do it," Kerry asserted firmly.  
  
Susan began, "Dr. Weaver, I don't think that's such a good idea . . ."  
  
"She's my wife."  
  
The words, 'I bet the state of Illinois would disagree with you on that,' were almost on Robert's lips when he was struck by the complete lack of defiance, only desperation, in Kerry's voice. Instead, he said quietly, "That's why you're not tubing her."  
  
Kerry started to protest, but Robert cut her off with, "Look, if Susan doesn't nail it, you're next in line, OK?" Then, aside to Susan, he quipped, "No pressure, Lewis."  
  
Susan wrinkled her nose at him as she skillfully slid the tube into Sandy's throat.  
  
XXXXXXXXXX  
  
Robert peeked into the now-quiet operating room containing Elizabeth, a resident, and Sandy Lopez's body. News of Sandy's death had already reached the ER. Robert surmised that Kerry was off talking to the family. He wasn't quite sure why he was here. In part, he wanted to check on Elizabeth – it must have been tough on her to lose the patient with Kerry sitting right there. But, besides that, he just felt a need to be where the action was, to see the results for himself.  
  
As he entered the room, Elizabeth was on her way out, called in to another emergency surgery. She instructed Jensen, the resident, to finish closing. Jensen pointed out that they had already wired Sandy's chest closed, but Elizabeth insisted that he do a more thorough cosmetic job than normal. He didn't seem too keen on this, but kept his mouth shut.  
  
Passing each other just inside the doorway, Robert and Elizabeth shared a silent glance. He saw regret in her eyes. It wasn't the kind of regret where you're kicking yourself, 'if only things had gone a little differently.' Rather, it was the kind that wells up when you realize that despite your best efforts, in the end, nothing could be done: regret for the fragility of human bodies and the limits of human power to repair them. Robert could see that she was shaken, but handling it. Other lives needed saving. He nodded to her understandingly as she left the room.  
  
Robert planned to stay for a few minutes, maybe rattle Jensen a bit. But just moments after Elizabeth departed, the resident got paged. He covered up Lopez's body and started putting things away.  
  
Romano demanded, "Where do you think you're going?"  
  
"Liver transplant. I get to scrub in."  
  
"They need you to assist, or you just want to observe? If it's the latter, you've already got a job to do here."  
  
Jensen replied flatly, "They said I can scrub in," as if it really wasn't any of Romano's business.  
  
Robert was annoyed. Sure, from a resident's perspective, closing up a corpse wasn't the sexiest of assignments. But Lizzie had told him to do it, and, anyway, Robert didn't like Jensen. However, he knew he had no authority over the little twerp, so he had to let him go. "Fine. Leave her. I'll finish up," he growled.  
  
At Jensen's dubious look, Robert rolled his eyes and snapped, "I'm allowed to sew dead people."  
  
Twenty minutes after Jensen left, Robert was still sewing. Absent the pressures inherent in working on a live patient, his progress was slow, but the results were good. He used strips of surgical tape to hold short stretches of skin closed, then methodically placed perfect little stitches between them. Absorbed in this task, he didn't look up immediately upon hearing the door quietly open and close. When he did raise his eyes, he found himself face to face with Kerry Weaver, across the table on which Sandy lay.  
  
For once in his life, Robert had no idea what to say. His relationship with Kerry was defined by conflict – sometimes playful, sometimes deadly serious. They'd had temporary truces before, but Robert didn't know how to initiate one. Honestly, on such occasions, it was usually Kerry who took the high road.  
  
Concerned that, given their history, Kerry might not want him handling her lover's body, he wanted to assure her that he meant no harm. Not finding the right words for that, he just said, "I can get somebody else to finish."  
  
Kerry wasn't quite looking at Robert as she shook her head and sank into a chair near Sandy's head. Her eyes looked old, hollowed out. Robert didn't know whether her gesture was responding to his statement, so he asked her directly, "Do you want me to leave?"  
  
Kerry stroked her lover's face, her fingers stopping at the breathing tube apparatus. In a meek, completely-not-Kerry voice, she asked, "Can you take it out?"  
  
It was against the rules, but Robert couldn't see any harm in complying with her request. He nodded, and, as carefully as possible with one hand, removed the apparatus from Sandy's throat. A little blood dripped from the tube onto Sandy's face, mingling with traces of soot. Kerry gently closed the other woman's mouth, and, with her hand, tried to wipe away the grime from her face.  
  
Seeing his sometime-opponent sitting there, rubbing ineffectually at her lover's face as tears streamed slowly down her own, Robert thought that, perhaps, he should go. 'You wouldn't want her to see you weak,' he told himself, 'so extend her the same courtesy.' That made perfect sense, but at the same time it was bullshit. He couldn't just leave her alone like this. When good friends aren't plentiful, sometimes a good enemy is better than nothing.  
  
Having decided to stay, Robert still wasn't sure what to do with this broken creature wearing Weaver's form. Normally, he wouldn't let a family member see the patient's body until it was closed up and cleaned up, but Kerry had been present during the actual surgery, so it seemed pointless to try to shield her now. Taking his cue from her behavior, he went over to the sink, filled a small basin with warm soapy water, and placed it on the gurney above Sandy's head.  
  
Kerry's gaze flicked toward the sloshing water distractedly. She accepted the washcloth Robert handed her, looking through him rather than at him. Then, with exquisite tenderness, she began washing Sandy's face. Hands moving reverently over the cold, still face and hair, Kerry seemed fragile, bereft. But as she cleaned, the emptiness in her eyes fell away, replaced by a muted intensity, as if all that was left of her spirit was focused on caring for this one precious person.  
  
Robert had occasionally seen his colleague morph from screeching bitch to kind doctor, so her gentleness did not come as a complete surprise to him. Still, the intimacy of the moment transfixed him momentarily. Swallowing hard, he pulled his gaze away and arranged the surgical drapes so that there was a small gap between the one covering Sandy's chest and shoulders and the one covering the lower half of her body. Coming around to stand beside Kerry, he used that opening to continue sewing the remaining inches of the incision on Sandy's midsection.  
  
People always seem more alive when in the company of corpses. Although she was out of his line of sight, Robert was acutely aware of Kerry's presence – her shallow ragged breathing, the sound of the washcloth dipping into water, even the warmth of her body just inches from his own. Were she similarly aware of him, working next to her, Kerry gave no sign.  
  
XXXXXXXXXX  
  
A few days later, Kerry Weaver sat at her desk, awaiting her next appointment. The time surrounding Sandy's death was a blur. If she tried, she could fix on particular events: seeing the relief in Sandy's eyes when she arrived at her side, falling apart in Abby's arms, hearing Henry's cry muffled behind glass and wood. But focusing on these memories brought more pain than she could bear.  
  
So, instead, she worked. Her job was the only part of her life that still made sense. Donald Anspaugh had told her that she should go home, take time to recover. Kerry supposed that he knew what he was talking about, having lost his teenage son not that long ago. But being at home meant thinking about the smell of smoke that always lingered in Sandy's hair; it meant looking at Henry's empty crib; it meant contemplating a bleak future without them. Running the hospital was easier than that.  
  
Kerry's next appointment was with Robert Romano. She'd recalled that he'd wanted to talk to her about something the morning before . . . everything happened. Since other well-meaning staff members had postponed their appointments so as not to burden her with anything non-essential, she let him know that she had an opening. Hopefully, she could count on the man who once wrote an entire quarterly report from his hospital bed to not try to deter her from burying herself in her work.  
  
After knocking, Robert entered with a subdued greeting. He approached tentatively, as if he realized that his usual abrasive style was inappropriate, but didn't really have anything else to fall back on. Kerry saw him run his eyes over her appraisingly. Instead of the dreaded, 'How are you?' he asked, "What's up?"  
  
"You wanted to speak to me about something in private . . .?" she prompted. She saw his eyebrows go up, the corners of his mouth quirking just a little, and could almost hear him thinking, 'Sure – I'll take advantage of your grief-fueled efficiency.'  
  
He replied, "Oh yeah, uh, there's this workshop I want to go to. Well, actually, it could be part of a longer program. Here, I'll show you."  
  
Robert came around behind the desk, standing off to the side a little, and pulled up a website on Kerry's computer. She scanned the description of an intensive course in pediatric emergency medicine, intended for doctors with expertise in either pediatrics or general emergency medicine. The program started with a 4-day workshop next month, which, for selected applicants, could lead into more in-depth training via a correspondence course.  
  
Kerry noticed her colleague shifting uncomfortably next to her as she read. When she looked up at him, he blustered, "I can bring along a couple of med students to the workshop – make it worth County's dime sending me."  
  
"Who did you have in mind?"  
  
"Lockhart and Rasgotra. They'll be just finishing up with their rotations in Psych and Pediatric Surgery, respectively."  
  
"Did you ask them if they're interested?" Kerry inquired, knowing that it would be just like Robert not to do so.  
  
"Why would I do that?" Robert replied. Then, after smirking at Kerry's reproachful expression, he went on, "I ran it by Abby. While she's understandably wary at the prospect of having to spend extra time with me, she didn't run screaming into the night. I told her that Neela can help her study for her boards during the car ride. She's gotta re-take them as soon as we get back."  
  
"OK," said Kerry. There was a lot more to be said, but, in her current state, nothing popped to mind.  
  
"Uh, I need you to write a letter of recommendation for me," Robert added, studying the wood grain of the desk.  
  
"Yes, I gathered that from the website," Kerry said. It would have to be a strong letter, too, since Robert didn't actually meet the general requirements for the program – his training was in neither pediatrics nor emergency medicine, and though he had some experience now in the latter field, it wasn't a lot. Writing a persuasive letter might be easier if she knew something about his motivations for pursuing this specialized training. So, she asked, "Any idea what I should say?"  
  
Rising to the buzz of his pager, Robert tossed out lightly, "I don't know. Tell 'em I hate kids less than I hate adults. Make something up – that's why they pay you the big bucks."  
  
He grinned and waved as he headed out the door, leaving Kerry shaking her head behind him. It dawned on her that he would be no help whatsoever in making his own case; he was just dropping the problem in her lap. 'For somebody so self-centered,' she thought, 'he's a terrible self-advocate.'  
  
But a good judge of character. Kerry would, in fact, do her best to give him this opportunity. And not only because it provided an excuse not to think about her own troubles.  
  
'Pediatric emergency?' Kerry mused. It would make more sense for Robert to pursue a field in which his disability wouldn't matter so much, like research or administration. But 'sense' and Robert Romano didn't necessarily go together, and Kerry had to admit that she found something appealing about the direction he was considering. Even if this particular plan didn't pan out, Kerry took it as a positive sign that he was thinking of a future for himself outside of surgery. Were happiness still among the emotions available to her, Kerry would have felt happy for him.  
  
XXXXXXXXXX  
  
Author's Note: It's been a month since my last update – sorry! – hope some of my readers are still with me! The good news is, with the semester finally over I'll be able to devote more time to what's really important: fanfic :-) I'm planning on three more chapters. Did you like Elizabeth's 'cameo'? She'll have a larger role in an upcoming chapter – though I can't guarantee any more smooching (heh heh). 


	13. Listening

This chapter begins the day after "Just a Touch". In my world, Gallant is still around. And Ella has NOT aged abnormally fast, so she's just turned three years old.  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
Friday . . .  
  
Michael Gallant stood awkwardly in the lounge, wishing he were someplace else, while Dr. Weaver and Dr. Romano interrogated Greg Pratt about the patient who'd reported him for sexual harassment yesterday. Weaver had already questioned Pratt – rather publicly, walking around the Admit area – right after she took the complaint. But now Romano was here, and apparently he wanted to get his digs in too. Gallant had tried to slip out of the lounge when the trio arrived, but Dr. Weaver nabbed him before he could leave.  
  
"Dr. Gallant," Weaver inquired, "Have you ever heard Dr. Pratt use the term 'TUBE', referring to the practice of performing unnecessary breast exams on attractive patients?"  
  
"I, uh . . . I'm not sure . . . uh," Gallant stammered, not wanting to lie, but also not wanting to make things any worse for his friend. Of course he'd heard Greg talk that way, but he had to believe it was just talk. Pratt was a player, but surely he wouldn't actually take advantage of a patient like that.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, we called them RBE's – recreational breast exams – when I was in school," Romano said impatiently, "Let's get back to the actual complaint."  
  
"Have you ever done one?" Kerry asked. Romano's only reply was a dirty look.  
  
"There was nothing 'recreational' about it," Pratt protested, "I discerned an enlarged lymph node. In a woman her age, no previous breast exams, unexplained back pain, an exam was in order to rule out metastatic . . ."  
  
"Did you tell her this?" Romano interrupted.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Did you explain to the patient why you wanted to perform a breast exam for a backache?" Romano elaborated, speaking to the resident as if he were a particularly slow five-year-old.  
  
"Uh, not exactly. I got consent, but I didn't want to worry her . . ." Pratt trailed off weakly.  
  
"Repeat after me: There is a small chance that this indicates something serious. Performing an exam will let us rule that out," Romano recited, sneering. "Come on, nitwit, you do this every day!"  
  
To Dr. Weaver, he went on stridently, "OK, so either Pratt's an idiot who doesn't tell his patients what he's examining them for, and might as well have 'sue me' tattooed across his forehead, or else he's a sleaze-ball who gets his kicks feeling up unsuspecting women. Personally, I'd guess 'idiot', but since Nurse Taggart, who was supposed to be chaperoning, has the observational powers of Stevie Wonder, I don't see how we're going to know for sure – unless the chick who complained comes back and files a formal report."  
  
Her voice brittle with irritation, Dr. Weaver responded, "Your flip attitude contributes to the problem, Robert."  
  
"Hmpf. I was wondering how long it would take for you to try to blame this on me. I wasn't even here, remember? And, if you'll recall, I wanted to fire his ass months ago," Romano retorted, smugly flicking his gaze toward Pratt.  
  
"Although you weren't directly involved in this incident, you encourage an atmosphere in which sexual harassment is not taken seriously . . ."  
  
"Yeah, I'm Pratt's role model." Romano quipped.  
  
Greg snorted, earning himself a withering glare from Dr. Weaver. Gallant maintained a carefully neutral expression.  
  
Obviously fed up, Weaver spat, "I consulted you as a courtesy, Robert, but clearly that effort was misspent." Making her way out the door, she added, "Dr. Pratt, report to me Monday morning to discuss the details of your sexual harassment presentation for the medical students."  
  
Whether or not Pratt had actually done anything inappropriate, Gallant wasn't sure he was the best choice to edify the medical students. This impression did not diminish when, as they left the lounge, Greg began describing in lewd detail what he would like to do for his presentation. Romano, walking ahead of them, turned back and began to say something, but he was distracted by a small figure with blondish hair, bobbing across the floor toward him.  
  
"Wooper come birt-day party!" Ella Greene exclaimed, running toward Romano.  
  
Gallant watched Romano's demeanor change from antagonistic to indulgent as he replied, "You want Rupert to come to your birthday party? Did your Mum say it's OK?"  
  
The little girl nodded emphatically to both questions. As her mother arrived behind her, Ella reached up to Romano to be lifted. He scooped her up more effectively than Gallant expected, and sat her on top of the admit desk so that she was roughly face to face with him.  
  
Romano shot a mock scowl at Dr. Corday, "Clever ploy, Lizzie. You just don't want to face a house full of shrieking brats all by yourself."  
  
"It was her idea, not mine," Elizabeth countered, smiling innocently, "Besides, Ella doesn't have that large a social circle yet. There'll be maybe four children there, maximum."  
  
"Dr. Corday," Chuny interjected, "Shirley's on line two – says it's urgent."  
  
Corday sighed and walked around the desk to the phone. She spoke into the receiver, "The nanny already dropped off my daughter . . . can't Edson cover? . . . 10 minutes . . . no . . . OK."  
  
Meanwhile, Ella had moved on to other matters: "Eminem!" she demanded cheerfully.  
  
"Shhh," Romano cautioned her, feigning secrecy as he grinned at Elizabeth over the girl's shoulder, "Your Mum's not supposed to know that I give you M&Ms."  
  
Ella put her finger up to her lips and giggled. Putting down the phone, Dr. Corday walked back to them, frowning. "Emergency laparotomy. I was off more than an hour ago. Dale's supposed to be covering, but . . ."  
  
"It's OK. Go," Romano told her.  
  
"I'll only be a few minutes. You'll watch her?"  
  
"No. I'm going to sell her to gypsies."  
  
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, then smiled at her daughter, "Sweetie, I've got to go back upstairs for a little while. You can stay with Robert, OK?"  
  
"OK," Ella agreed. Then, when her mother had left she asked, "Gissies?"  
  
"Yup," Romano replied, without further clarification.  
  
Getting back to her previous goal, Ella prodded, "Eminem!"  
  
"OK, OK, hold your horses," answered Romano, in a not-really-grouchy tone.  
  
Amused, Gallant questioned, "Um, are kids that young supposed to be eating chocolate?"  
  
"What, did Weaver deputize you as the new Nutrition Nazi?" Romano shot back. "Besides, I only give her two M&Ms. It's amazing how much mileage you can get out of half a teaspoon of chocolate." Then, turning his attention back to Ella, he corrected himself, "Oh, wait a minute, how old are you now?"  
  
Ella held up three fingers and said proudly, "Three."  
  
Holding up three fingers in return, Romano said, "That means you get THREE M&Ms."  
  
Ella squealed like she'd just won the lottery. Her glee caused Romano to break into a big grin – a striking change from his usual caustic expression. Gallant chuckled; he'd seen Romano be gentle with young patients before, but not playful like this. Hearing Pratt snicker, Gallant looked over and saw that the other resident was also enjoying the scene, as were Chuny and Haleh.  
  
Romano, too, apparently noticed the attention. He toned down his grin and said to the little girl, "Come on, let's get out of here before you completely undermine my authority with these bozos."  
  
"Bozos," Ella giggled. She slid off the counter, into Romano's arms, and wrapped her hands around his neck, singing, "Green an' owange, green and owange."  
  
"Yep, you can pick out your colors," he replied, stuffing the paperwork in his right hand under his prosthesis so that he could hold the girl with his good arm. As he headed toward the lockers, he asked, "Are you hanging on tight?"  
  
"Uh huh," Ella replied, letting go completely to wave at Haleh.  
  
Smiling, Gallant overheard their retreating conversation:  
  
Romano: "OK, see, that's not holding on tight. That's not holding on at all."  
  
"Hold-on-tight – Why?"  
  
"Cuz if I drop you on your head, your Mommy will holler at me."  
  
"Hee! – Mummy holler . . ."  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
Saturday evening . . .  
  
Elizabeth Corday closed the door behind the last of her young guests and sighed with satisfaction: Ella's first real party. Not being a complete masochist, Elizabeth had kept the guest list short. Drew and Melissa Windom, among the few "couple friends" that she'd maintained a relationship with after Mark's death, attended with their daughter and infant son. Although pleasant and well-educated, Elizabeth found the adult Windoms a bit dull. But their daughter, Amy, was just a few months older than Ella, and the two got along well. The other guest was a girl Ella knew from playgroup. Her father dropped her off and picked her up. Kris, Robert, and, of course, Robert's dog, Rupert, rounded out the party.  
  
Elizabeth had hoped that Robert would liven up the conversation with the Windoms, but he hadn't. Instead, he kept to himself among the adults, and interacted mostly with the kids and the dog. This struck Elizabeth as odd, since she'd never known Robert not to strive to be the center of attention. Of course, she HAD threatened him severe bodily harm should he insult anyone, but it's not like that had ever worked before.  
  
Remembering Robert's tendency to withdraw when depressed, she was mildly concerned. Yet, he hadn't seemed unhappy today – just maybe a little self conscious. And he did have his hands full trying to keep Rupert from jumping on the children, and keeping the children – Amy especially – from trying to ride Rupert.  
  
Elizabeth walked back into the living room, where Ella was chattering to Robert and Kris as she picked up scraps of wrapping paper and put them into a bag. Elizabeth knew that she would have to distract her daughter before the bag was full, or else Ella would dump the bag out and scatter the paper so that she could start all over again. Normally, that wouldn't be a bad way to occupy her time, but it was getting late.  
  
Kris had plans for the evening, so she gathered her things to go and kissed Ella goodnight. Ella was quite accustomed to the nanny coming and going. Normally she took it in stride, but now, she started to pout and whine. Realizing that her daughter was probably tired and over-stimulated, Elizabeth bade Kris goodbye, then announced, "Bedtime for cranky birthday girls!"  
  
Before Ella could protest, she added, "Do you want to take your new dolly and bunny with you?"  
  
The doll was a present from Elizabeth's Mum, and was probably expensive enough that she shouldn't let Ella really maul it. The stuffed rabbit was from Robert. It was mottled with psychedelic colors, mostly purples, and had a blue bow tie and electric pink eyes that bugged out a bit. As Robert had observed when Ella tore off the wrapping paper, 'he looks like he's hallucinating himself.' Naturally, Ella loved it.  
  
The little girl walked over to the couch and collected her toys. She giggled "G'night" at Robert and charged up the stairs, while babbling something that sounded like instructions into the doll's ear. Following behind her daughter, Elizabeth invited, "If you want to stick around, I think I can provide some more grown-up beverages. I should warn you that I may be a while – there's a lot of cake and doggie-drool to clean off her."  
  
"No problem," Robert replied, "I've got to take Rupert outside for a minute anyway." Looking over at the canine collapsed in the corner, he added, "Assuming I can rouse him. What's the matter, boy, those girlies too much for ya?"  
  
Elizabeth grinned and headed for the stairs. She forced herself not to intervene as Robert carried several plates at once, teetering precariously, out to the kitchen. On her way upstairs, she listened for the sounds of crashing dishes, but heard none.  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
"Crap," Robert Romano muttered, as he peered into the downstairs bathroom. He'd finished loading the dishwasher and had taken Rupert outside to do his business. Now he wanted to wash his hands – or rather, his hand, which was the problem. Having scrubbed for surgery regularly for half his life, not being able to wash the back of his hand properly drove him nuts. Unfortunately, without the aid of another hand, it was tough to do so. The artificial one was water resistant, but not much good for lathering.  
  
At home, he solved this problem by keeping a folded washcloth on the counter by each sink: he soaped the washcloth, lathered his hand against it, then rinsed both hand and washcloth under the running water. Lacking this amenity, he could get by with a solid bar of soap that he could rub the back of his hand on. Unfortunately, Elizabeth's kitchen and downstairs bathroom sinks offered only pump bottles of liquid soap.  
  
Robert listened carefully and found that he could no longer hear the splashes and giggles that accompanied Ella's bathtime. He ventured upstairs, found the bathroom vacant, and made use of the bar of soap. As an added perk, he found that, with the water off, he could hear Elizabeth reading a bedtime story to her daughter.  
  
'OK, so now I'm officially pathetic,' Robert mocked himself, as he stood in the bathroom, listening covertly. He always loved Elizabeth's voice, but there was something about the way it sounded when she was reading aloud, rather than simply speaking, that made it even more captivating than usual. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, all was right with the world.  
  
When the story was finished, he heard Ella request, "Read Daddy card."  
  
Elizabeth started reading a short birthday letter that Mark must have written for his daughter before he died. Robert felt a brief flash of sympathy for Greene – How many letters did he write? One for each year? God, that must suck – but most of his concern was for Elizabeth, whose voice now sounded strained.  
  
Elizabeth finished reading the letter, and Ella immediately said, "Read Daddy card again." There was a pause, then Ella repeated, "Mummy, read Daddy card." A moment later, "Mummy sad?"  
  
Robert waited a moment, not sure if he should intervene. Still, there was no response from Elizabeth. He couldn't resist. He crossed the hall, knocked lightly on Ella's bedroom door, and entered. Elizabeth looked up at him, fighting back tears. They locked eyes for a moment, then Robert turned to Ella, saying, "You know what you forgot to do? You forgot to say goodnight to Rupert."  
  
He grinned down at the girl, who eagerly hopped up so he could carry her downstairs to rectify the situation.  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
By the time Robert and Ella returned, about 10 minutes later, Elizabeth felt more in control of herself. Robert dropped Ella off, waved, and left the room, perhaps realizing that, if he stayed, Ella would be more inclined toward laughing than sleeping. Elizabeth smiled wryly at the fact that her daughter seemed to find the gruff ex-surgeon endlessly amusing. He made no attempt to limit his vocabulary to that of a preschooler, so Ella probably didn't understand much of what he said to her. Nevertheless, she seemed to enjoy his weird sense of humor.  
  
After a quick cuddle and an off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday", Ella was tucked in for the night and Elizabeth headed downstairs. Robert, sitting on the couch scanning a newspaper, glanced up as she approached. Elizabeth looked at him warmly and said, "Thanks."  
  
"Yeah, well, you know how sensitive Rupe is to social slights . . ."  
  
Elizabeth grinned, grateful that he wasn't pressing for an explanation. Nonetheless, she offered, "I just don't want her to think of Mark's letters as something sad. And she doesn't. Except when I make it that way."  
  
Robert listened quietly as she went on, "Maybe I'm jealous. It's simpler for her: Daddy went to heaven, but he loves her and sends her cards on her birthday." Hearing the whiney tone creeping up in her voice, she admonished herself, "Oh, I should be better at this by now . . . let's talk about something else. Want a beer?"  
  
"Sure," Robert replied. He looked away for a moment, then looked back at her and said softly, "For what it's worth, I think you're doing fine."  
  
Elizabeth went to the kitchen and returned with two beers. She knew that Robert was trying to be sensitive. He wasn't very good at it, but somehow that made his attempts kind of sweet. As she handed him a bottle, she smiled fondly. Until he said something that made her smile freeze:  
  
"By the way, while we were downstairs, I told Ella that you're getting her a puppy for her birthday."  
  
'No. He wouldn't. This is Robert, of course he would,' ran through Elizabeth's mind. Her face reddened and she sputtered, "Oh no . . . I can't . . . you didn't . . . you're . . ."  
  
"Kidding," he grinned, raising his hand in surrender, "Don't hurt me."  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
A couple of hours and a couple of beers later, Elizabeth was very relaxed. Robert seemed pretty mellow too, though neither of them was drunk. In order to put her feet on the coffee table, she slid a bag filled with paperwork off onto the floor. Robert raised his eyebrows at the quantity of work.  
  
Elizabeth sighed, "Scheduling. Ugh."  
  
He wrinkled his nose in reply. She plead jokingly, "Want to do it for me?"  
  
"Only if I can give Dorsett a month of back-to-back bowel resections."  
  
"Done."  
  
Robert chuckled, then said, "I thought you were planning on ditching the administrative thing."  
  
"I was," Elizabeth replied, "But then Sandy died, and I guess I didn't want to cause any more trouble for Kerry right away." With a self effacing grin, she admitted, "Also, it's difficult talking to Kerry, now, and having to be . . . nice."  
  
Robert snickered, "Is that what we're supposed to be doing?"  
  
Elizabeth went on, "Actually, I am rather concerned about her. But I don't know if there's anything I can do to help. We're not exactly close."  
  
"Yeah, you'd think there must be somebody out there who DOESN'T hate her, who can look after her." Robert's words were harsh, but there was an incongruous sadness in his eyes.  
  
"Anyway," Elizabeth explained, "I told the Board that if they wanted me to continue to do this job, they had to let me appoint an associate chief to whom I can delegate some responsibilities. Tentatively they've approved."  
  
"Good idea – somebody you can torture and dump work on. Hey, that'd be a great way to get back at 'Fast Eddie' . . ."  
  
"Heh. True, but it would probably seem more professional if I picked somebody whom I haven't slept with."  
  
"Edson?"  
  
"Too annoying."  
  
"How about that new guy, the Brit? What's his name – Lawson?"  
  
Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. It didn't take Robert long to put two and two together. He sniped, "So, when did you decide it was your mission in life to sleep your way through the surgical staff?"  
  
Robert's tone was petulant, but not judgmental. Elizabeth responded in kind, smirking, "About the same time that you left the department."  
  
"Ooooh – touché." He mimed being stabbed in the heart.  
  
Rupert perked up his ears at his human's antics. The big puppy, who had yet to grow into his remarkably large paws, rambled over and tried to nudge his way onto the couch between the two doctors. Robert scooted over a little, making room. Rupert flopped part of his body onto Robert's lap and part on the couch between them, his tail wagging across Elizabeth's knees. "Well, at least somebody still loves me," Robert pouted, rubbing the pup behind the ears.  
  
Elizabeth giggled, "I think you like that dog better than you like most people."  
  
"Whattaya mean, 'most'? I like dogs better than people because, as a rule, dogs ARE better than people," he grumbled.  
  
"Let's see: they do what they're told, they don't talk back, they think you're magnificent," Elizabeth teased, "Yes, I can see why that would appeal to you."  
  
"It's not just that, is it Rupe?" Robert's voice was simultaneously joking and contemplative. He petted the dog, who tried to lick him on the nose, tail beating faster against Elizabeth's legs. "Dogs are MORALLY better."  
  
Elizabeth laughed at the statement, but not unkindly.  
  
Robert countered, "No, I mean it." He paused for a moment, as if he might be finished, then went on, "When I was a kid, maybe 10, we had a dog. She was a shepherd-mix – big and sweet – named Lottie. I always had to race home after school to take her outside so she wouldn't wet in the house."  
  
Elizabeth smiled, intrigued. In all the years she'd known Robert, she'd heard hardly a word about his childhood. She asked, "Why was that your job?"  
  
"Uh, my Mom was usually sick – she has lupus, though it wasn't diagnosed 'till many years later. My sister is five years younger than me, so she was too little. Dad didn't like animals, and besides, he would've been at work. Anyway, I'd try to get home to take Lottie for a walk, but if I didn't get there on time, or if she was really whining a lot to go out, Mom would have to let her go in the yard. The problem was, Lott could get over the fence, and then I'd have to hunt her down.  
  
It turned out there was another problem that I hadn't thought of: she turned up pregnant. Of course, I was thrilled. I knew Dad wouldn't let me keep the puppies, but I was excited about seeing them get born. And Mom said that they couldn't be separated from their mother for a few weeks, so I figured that I'd have them for a little while anyway. I made a bed for Lottie in the basement, and I kept going down there to check if she was giving birth.  
  
Finally, she did, and it was amazing. Four perfect little puppies. Mom told me not to touch them – said it would upset Lottie – so I just sat on top of the washing machine and watched. Lott was real protective of her babies. But a couple of hours later she came over to me, looking all proud, and let me pet her."  
  
Elizabeth was entranced. She could vividly picture her friend as a boy, his intense brown eyes peeking out from under a mop of curly red hair, eagerly observing the birth process. She was also tickled that Robert seemed to mind his mother's directions. She'd always assumed he would've been a bit more . . . well . . . bratty.  
  
Staring off into space, he continued, "Few days later, Dad came down into the basement. I knew that wasn't good – he never had much use for Lottie – Mom must've taken her in while we weren't living with him. Anyway, he starts going on about how it's my fault Lott got out, my responsibility, blah blah blah. But I'm not really listening, 'cause as he's talking, he's picking up the puppies and putting them in a box, and Lottie's freaking out – barking, running around in circles. I grab hold of her so she won't hurt herself, and also so she won't lunge at him and give him an excuse to hurt her."  
  
Elizabeth noticed Robert's diction speeding up as he got caught up in the memory, his tone becoming flat. "Dad brings the box over to the sink and says, 'You'd better keep her back or she's next.' Then he picks up one of the pups – a grayish one – holds it up so Lottie and I can see it, and breaks its neck. He does the same thing with each of the others. All the while, I'm holding on to Lottie, and she's got her jaws clamped around my arm and she's making these unearthly sounds . . ."  
  
Robert winced as if he still heard the dog's distressed cries, and ran his hand over the spot where his left forearm used to be, but otherwise he didn't appear agitated. Elizabeth supposed that, for him, this was ancient history. But it was news to her, and she was utterly horrified.  
  
"That's . . . that's awful," she stammered. Then, anger rising, she added hotly, "Please tell me that your father's not already dead, so I can kill him."  
  
That snapped Robert out of his reverie. He smiled appreciatively at her ire, and said, "As far as I know, he's still alive. I guess I would hear about it eventually if he kicked the bucket. Yeah, he's a dick, but that's not the point of the story. The point is what happened afterwards:  
  
So, Dad puts the box with the dead puppies down on the floor, says something like, 'they're all yours,' then goes upstairs. Lottie starts sniffing her pups, nudging them with her nose like she's trying to wake them, whimpering when she can't. I'm kneeling a few feet away, crying, and also bleeding pretty badly from where she tore up my arm. After a little while, Lottie comes over to me, sniffs me, then licks my face a bunch of times. She lets me hug her and tries to clean the place where she bit me. Things get fuzzy after that, but I know I spent the night in the basement and she was curled up with me the whole time.  
  
See, she forgave me – just like that. As far as she could tell, I HELPED that bastard kill her babies. But two minutes later, she's licking my face . . .," he trailed off reverently, then looked down and added, in a voice just above a whisper, "People aren't like that. They're not that . . . kind."  
  
Elizabeth studied her friend for a long moment, really seeing him – both as the malicious egomaniac with whom she'd had a long and tumultuous relationship, and as the complicated human whom she had, more recently, been getting to know.  
  
When he raised his eyes to meet hers, she held his gaze and said sincerely, "Sometimes people forgive each other, too."  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
Author's Note: I've been planning this chapter for a long time, but it was hard to write! Generally, I think that to write for a character like Romano you have to have some sort of back story in mind, and then force yourself NOT to tell it, since he wouldn't. But here, I thought I could make it plausible that he might share just a little bit – only with Elizabeth. Hope it worked! 


	14. Graduation

This chapter takes place around the time of "Midnight," starting a week or so before Graduation day.  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
"Uh, Dr. Romano," Abby said tentatively, "As I might have mentioned, I need to take the boards next week, and, um, I was thinking that maybe it would be a better use of my limited time if I stayed home studying, rather than going to the Pediatric Emergency workshop . . ."  
  
Taking in Neela's dubious expression, she asked, "Think he'll buy it?"  
  
"Uh uh," the younger medical student replied, shaking her head sympathetically.  
  
"You're biased. You don't want to be stuck alone with him."  
  
"True," Neela admitted, with an endearing lopsided grin.  
  
The women were waiting near the Admit desk, so that Abby could talk to Romano. He'd finished his shift a while ago, but just when Abby thought he was going to leave, he went into the lounge. Since several other people were in the lounge too, she decided to try to catch him on the way out. No way would he cut her a break with an audience present.  
  
Finally, the lounge door opened, and out came Pratt and Lester, followed by Dr. Romano. Grinning, Pratt slapped Lester on the back and asked loudly, clearly intending to be overheard, "So, how's it feel to whip the 'Big Boss'?"  
  
'Oh great,' Abby lamented to herself, 'Couldn't Lester have lost one stupid chess game? Now Romano will be more pissy than usual.'  
  
Momentarily, Lester's eyes seemed to focus inward. Abby often got the impression that the young man had a lot going on inside his head – some of it quite strange – and he took a moment to pick out what he deemed an appropriate answer. Abby and Neela had become accustomed to this, having learned that his responses were usually worth the wait.  
  
More interested in razzing Romano than in Lester's perceptions, Pratt didn't wait. He went on, "I mean, how's it different than beating the rest of us poor slobs?"  
  
Lester said candidly, "I gloat less."  
  
Romano gave a fleeting grin at the quirky response, but quickly turned it into a scowl, aimed at Pratt, as he walked toward the ambulance bay doors. Abby couldn't tell if he was really mad or just putting on a show, but she decided to take her chances. She caught up with him near the doors. "Dr. Romano," she began, "I, uh, have to take the boards in a few days . . ."  
  
Romano stopped walking, turned to her, and sneered, "Yeah, I remember. I don't know what the hell you were thinking the first time when you punted 'em."  
  
'Can't he at least PRETEND it's not common knowledge around here that I flunked?' Abby thought, sighing. She said, "Well, I'm concerned . . ."  
  
"Don't be," Romano interrupted, "If you've got a modicum of gray matter, they're a snap." Raising his voice a little, he added, "I mean, Pratt passed them – how hard could they be?" smirking when the resident looked over.  
  
"MORRIS must've passed," Romano continued, derisively, then paused as everyone within earshot marveled at this perplexing fact. Spying Luka Kovac, who'd entered through the nearby doors, Romano snarked, "Hell, this guy passed the boards, and I'm not even sure he speaks English."  
  
Luka muttered something in Croatian. Romano narrowed his eyes and demanded, "What?"  
  
Smiling at Abby, Luka responded, "I said, 'I'm sure you'll do fine. Piece of . . . pie." He delivered the last word with a knowing grin that made Abby laugh out loud.  
  
Recovering from her mirth, Abby realized that Romano was getting away. He called to her over his shoulder as he headed out the door, "Don't be late for our road trip tomorrow!"  
  
Crap. Abby briefly considered running after him, but decided against it. She had a sneaking suspicion that the little shit knew exactly what she wanted to ask him, and that this was his way of blowing her off. Turning back toward Neela who was waiting expectantly at the desk, she announced, "I am so screwed."  
  
-OOOOO-  
  
Five days later, on her way back from the workshop, Abby felt somewhat less screwed. She was flopped in the backseat of the rental car, with notes and books spread around her, as Romano drove and Neela dozed in the passenger seat. In a rare show of assertiveness, Neela had laid claim to the passenger seat for most of the trip, so as to keep Romano and Abby from fighting over the radio. Grinning, Abby remembered the panicked look on her friend's face each time Romano let go of the steering wheel to change the station when Abby selected something he didn't like.  
  
Although not as restful as locking herself away at home to study, the trip had provided great opportunities for review. Going into it, Abby felt pretty confident in her knowledge of psychiatry, obstetrics, and emergency medicine. The workshop activities had helped her beef up on pediatrics and related fields, and sharing a hotel room with Neela gave her a chance to pick the whiz kid's brain about everything else. Additionally, Romano supplied clear explanations of trauma diagnoses and surgical procedures whenever she asked, though, of course, he wrapped them in sarcasm.  
  
Dealing with Romano during the workshop proved to be less painful than Abby feared; he'd been rude, but somewhat less obnoxious than usual. She surmised that the intensive workload provided a focus for Romano's manic energy, leaving less available for bullying med students. Amusingly, he was also possessive about his personal punching bags: when another workshop participant picked on Neela, Romano verbally eviscerated the guy, concluding his tirade with, "I get to abuse them; you don't."  
  
Abby had to admit that it was kind of fun to watch, when one isn't on the receiving end.  
  
It was also interesting to watch Romano and the other doctors during the practicum segment, when they worked up clinic patients. Romano was, by far, the least warm-and-fuzzy participant. But Abby was surprised to conclude that, when she was a child, she probably would have preferred his approach: gruff, confident, with just a touch of humor. The oh-so-perky demeanor that some of the other doctors put on – as if a trip to the emergency room was like a trip to the circus – would have freaked her out. Then again, thanks to Maggie, she'd been a bit oversensitive to inappropriate affect.  
  
As Abby mused, the car slowed to a halt, as did all the other cars around them. Romano began grumbling, then swearing colorfully, which woke Neela. They were still a couple of hours from Chicago traffic, with no signs of road construction, so Abby figured the delay was probably due to an accident. There really wasn't much to do but sit back and wait until it was cleared.  
  
Unless, of course, one has the patience of a lit bottle-rocket. Romano first opened the window and craned his neck out, but couldn't see around the SUV ahead of them. Then he put the car in park and got out to stand next to it. Apparently he still couldn't see, so he walked over to the median, stepping onto the grass just in time to avoid being flattened by a pair of ambulances speeding past on the left shoulder of the road.  
  
When he returned to the car, Abby commented, "It was thoughtful of you to leave us the keys before trying to get yourself killed."  
  
Ignoring her, he reported, "Looks like something big, maybe a half-mile ahead. The way the road bends, I can't see clearly."  
  
As Abby pondered, 'What is it with men and their need for instant information about everything?' one of the guys in the SUV ahead of them climbed onto the top of his vehicle. He called down to his buddies, "It's a crash – big yellow school bus and a truck or something."  
  
Romano pulled the car over onto the right shoulder and drove up to a place where an entrance ramp widened the road enough that an emergency vehicle could get around them, if necessary. Though unsure whether he was motivated by humanitarian reasons or by the fact that he couldn't sit still for five minutes, Abby wasn't surprised when he turned off the engine and said, "Well, are you coming?"  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
Arriving at the crash site with Neela and Abby trailing behind him, Robert wondered if they were too late to be useful. Several ambulances were already on the scene, their crews treating and evacuating patients. Surprisingly, nobody prevented the trio from wandering around the wreckage, despite the fact that they weren't wearing medical attire. They approached the school bus – which was twisted, nearly broken in half, with a U-Haul truck embedded in its side – and ducked in through the emergency hatch in back.  
  
There was only one passenger left in the bus, a boy in his early teens, wearing a nondescript blue sports uniform. A doctor and an EMT were attending to him. It was obvious why he hadn't been removed with the others: his right arm and leg were pinned where the side of the bus was now compressed to the buckled floor by the U-Haul.  
  
Robert came closer and realized that the boy's limbs were not just pinned, but crushed, mangled within the twisted metal. He felt a chill, but forced himself to maintain clinical detachment in order to assess the situation. The weight of the truck provided pressure, slowing blood loss, but that wouldn't save the kid for long. He needed to be extricated, pronto.  
  
Robert successfully suppressed his emotional response until his gaze reached the boy's face. Dark hair plastered against sweat-slicked pale skin, the kid's eyes were open wide – shocky and scared. Making eye contact, Robert felt himself getting pulled into the same state of mind. Amidst rising panic and nausea, he struggled to think clearly. As if at a distance, he heard the other doctor speaking into a radio, describing the case:  
  
"Fourteen year old male, David Witold, right lower extremity crushed to mid tib-fib, right arm partially amputated, hand and forearm crushed, elbow dislocated and fractured, with compound fractures above and below the joint. Administered blood, fluids and morphine. To evacuate, we'll need to complete the amputation. Beginning disarticulation above the elbow."  
  
Robert hadn't been sure how tuned in David was to what was happening, but the kid blanched even further at the word 'amputation' and started shaking his head. Caught up in his own visceral reaction, it took Robert a moment to fully digest what the other doctor had said. When he did, he objected, "No. No, you're not disarticulating above the elbow. The joint and upper forearm might be salvageable."  
  
The doctor, a young man who looked tired beyond his years, shook his head and replied, "There's too much damage – protruding bone, probably impeded blood flow. It's standard procedure for a field amputation to cut above the damage – deviating would increase risk of complications, and in his condition . . ." He trailed off, pushing his glasses up on his nose, and asked belatedly, "Uh, who ARE you?"  
  
Robert fished his County ID out of his pocket and showed it, at the same time taking a look at the other doctor's ID badge and smirking to himself, 'Hmpf – a resident. I can make short work of him.'  
  
Taking an aggressive posture, Robert got in the other man's face and persisted, "Maybe the joint can't be saved, but hey, here's a novel idea: why don't we let an orthopedic surgeon make that call in an OR, instead of having a second year internal medicine resident decide it in the back of a school bus?"  
  
"But . . ."  
  
"A below-the-elbow procedure will give him much better prosthetic options than above-the-elbow, and I think that's worth a little effort on our part. The only reason you THINK it's higher risk is 'cause you don't know how to do one. Why didn't they send somebody who knows what they're doing?" Despite a few inches of height differential, Robert successfully stared down the younger man.  
  
Sounding rattled, the resident responded, "Uh, I was just doing a ride- along. There'll be a surgeon coming with the chopper, but we can't wait that long to extricate. I, uh, need to talk to my supervisor . . ."  
  
"You go do that," Robert brushed him off. Then, turning on the EMT who was hovering nervously a few feet away, he barked, "You – come here. Make yourself useful. You got gloves?"  
  
As Robert, Neela, and Abby gloved up, Robert smiled smugly at how easily he'd cowed the resident and EMT. It felt a bit like the old days when he enjoyed his reign of terror at County General.  
  
Then David reached up, tugged on Robert's jeans, and begged, "Mister, don't let him cut off my hand. Please!"  
  
Oh damn. Apparently, the kid had grasped that Robert was arguing with the doctor who'd mentioned amputation, but obviously he didn't fully understand the situation. Shoulders losing their cocky set, Robert knelt down next to the kid and said gently, "I'm sorry, son, but your hand is gone. There's nothing we can do about that."  
  
He maintained eye-contact with David, though he desperately wanted to look away, as distress flooded the boy's features. David shook his head in denial for a moment, then his eyes filled with tears and he whispered, "I want my Mom."  
  
Abby pulled out her cell phone and turned it on, but then frowned, "I can't get a signal in here."  
  
Neela suggested, "If you give us the number, we'll call your mother once you're out of here, and she can meet you at the hospital." David complied.  
  
Noticing the boy's vitals fluctuating, Robert said, "I need to put a tube down your throat to help you breathe. First, we'll give you some medicine that will make you sleep . . ."  
  
"No. I wanna be awake."  
  
Quietly, Robert assured him, "No you don't. Trust me, you don't."  
  
David looked at him quizzically, then slowly nodded. Abby pushed the sedative into his IV.  
  
-OOOOO-  
  
Twenty minutes later, Robert was sitting in one of the school bus seats, eyes closed, leaning forward, his forehead pressed against the cushioned back of the seat in front of him. He'd folded himself in there shortly after they loaded David onto the helicopter, and he had no intention of moving until the sound of rotors had completely faded into the distance. And maybe not for a week or two afterward. On the plus side, he was pretty sure that he wasn't going to throw up.  
  
The extrication had gone as well as could be hoped. Under his direction, Neela and Abby kicked ass. Though neither of them had much surgical experience, their rapport with each other under pressure was uncanny. The promised surgeon arrived just as they were finishing. A Tiger Woods of a woman who undoubtedly sent the Affirmative Action officer of her hospital into cartwheels of joy, she nevertheless seemed competent – she surveyed their work approvingly, without challenging Robert's method.  
  
Which was good, because once David was stable and ready for transport, Robert felt his stoic façade crumbling fast, as the impact of what he'd just done caught up with him. The visit from his old friend the chopper hadn't helped matters, either. Not all the emotions he was experiencing now were bad – there was pride and relief at the success of the procedure – but mixed with anxiety and snatches of memory, it was all overwhelming:  
  
. . . please don't let him cut off my hand, mister . . . whirring buzz of the bone saw . . . pieces of a body left behind . . . propeller flashing overhead . . . do we have the arm? . . . across the roof, something familiar yet suddenly alien . . . no don't clamp it, i don't want to live like this . . .   
  
Robert shivered and curled up tighter in the seat. Someone slipped in beside him, and a minute or two later he heard Neela's soft voice near his left shoulder asking, "Dr. Romano, are you alright?"  
  
He nodded, or tried to, the seat-back preventing his head from actually moving much. Eyes still closed, he pushed himself back into the seat and mumbled, "Yeah, I'm fine."  
  
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Abby's face, peering over the seat-back. Startled, he jumped, almost elbowing Neela with his prosthesis, and swore, "Shit!"  
  
Abby smirked at him. 'When did she become such a little smartass?' he mused, more fondly than he cared to admit.  
  
Still feeling a bit spacey, his thoughts drifted back to the previous day, when they were seeing clinic patients for the workshop:  
  
The third kid in a row had become frightened by Robert's arm, leaving him speculating, cynically, that the workshop coordinators were deliberately funneling timid children his way to test him. This thought pissed him off royally, as it underscored his subordinate position.  
  
At County, less than one in five young kids seriously wigged. And, there, he could pass off those cases to other doctors. He did so, figuring that if the kids were scared and hurting to begin with, they didn't need him making things worse. Here, however, passing them off wasn't an option. So, he let Abby and Neela do the hands-on examinations, sometimes even leaving the room and supervising through the two-way mirror in the adjoining observation room.  
  
This latest child, a mildly developmentally delayed six-year-old named Grace who presented with symptoms of a possible shunt infection, stared at the door he'd exited, as if her constant vigilance could prevent the monster she'd narrowly escaped from barging back in and devouring her. Watching through the mirror, Robert bit his lip, annoyed at himself for letting it get to him.  
  
"Is he coming back?" Grace asked warily.  
  
Neela pursed her lips, shooting a glance toward the mirror, then she smiled and said gently, "If Dr. Romano needs to come back in, he'll knock on the door first, so he won't startle you."  
  
"He's scary," the girl whimpered.  
  
Her mother tried to hush her, but Abby spoke up cheerfully: "He sure is!"  
  
At the others' surprised expressions, she explained with a conspiratorial grin, "He's our boss, and he's kind of grouchy, and he yells at us a lot."  
  
Neela laughed, and Grace looked like she was almost ready to smile. Abby continued, "But I'll tell you a secret: he's much nicer to little kids than to grown-ups. He wouldn't be mean to you."  
  
Grace looked down and murmured, "His hand is scary."  
  
Over the mother's embarrassed politically correct noises, Abby explained, "Dr. Romano lost his real hand in an accident. He uses the plastic one to help him work."  
  
"It made a weird noise."  
  
"That's because it's got a motor inside, like a robot. Cool, huh? But don't worry, it only does what he tells it to do, so it can't hurt you."  
  
Grace didn't seem convinced that this was "cool," but Robert noted that she'd calmed down considerably. When he re-entered the room, she watched him apprehensively, but did NOT do the thing he dreaded most from pediatric patients: burst into tears.  
  
After Grace and her mother departed, he regarded Abby with upraised eyebrows. She shrugged and said dryly, "I decided that little Gracie didn't need to know about your ass-grabbing phase."  
  
Back in the school bus, seemingly apropos of nothing, Robert giggled. Abby looked him over appraisingly, then held out her hand and said, "Keys?"  
  
Though annoyed at her tone, Robert concurred with her assessment that there was no way he should be operating a moving vehicle. He fumbled a bit before managing to put the car keys into her outstretched hand. Then he held out his upturned palm in a similar gesture, and sighed, "Cell phone?"  
  
As Abby and Neela went off to fetch the car, Robert climbed out of the bus and leaned against it. He drew in a deep breath, mentally bracing himself, then slowly dialed David's number.  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
The day before Graduation . . .  
  
Neela Rasgotra was in a corridor off the ER, trying to gather 19 of her closest relatives into a cohesive group. They'd insisted on the grand tour, but escorting so many people without letting them get in the way of the staff was quite a challenge. Honestly, it was like herding cats. In passing, she caught Gallant's eye. He shot her an amused but understanding smile that melted the edges off her stress.  
  
Most of her stress, of course, had nothing to do with her adequacy as a tour guide. She hadn't yet told her parents about her decision to withdraw from the residency match. She dreaded even broaching the subject. Of course, that was part of the problem. She needed to figure out whether she was pursuing a career in medicine for them, or for herself. Some of her rotations, such as the pediatric surgery rotation she'd just completed, had been terrific. But she was disturbed by how easily she was thrown when things didn't go her way – such as in NICU and Geriatrics. Maybe that meant that she wasn't really committed to being a doctor. Maybe it meant nothing. But she owed it to herself to sort this out before proceeding.  
  
Trying to psych herself up, she murmured, "How bad can it be?"  
  
Bad.  
  
She recalled Dr. Romano's reaction a couple of weeks ago, when she told him that she was having second thoughts about her career choice. He blew up at her. It wasn't pretty. Still, Neela knew that his response was as much about him as it was about her. He took a certain amount of vicarious pleasure in nurturing her surgical career; she was threatening that. Understanding this made his wrath both easier and harder to endure.  
  
To his credit, he handled things better the next day. He apologized for being so hard on her, and grudgingly admitted that if she had to "flake out", this was a good time to do it – after medical school but before she committed herself to several years of a residency program. He advised her to withdraw from the match unless she was reasonably certain she could go through with a placement. Taking a year off wasn't nearly as bad as quitting an internship, which would raise red flags for any future matches.  
  
Dr. Romano was obviously hoping that she would eventually come to her senses and go back to medicine, and was trying to make things easier for her when that happened. Neela supposed she should find this presumptuous, but it was actually kind of reassuring that someone was thinking about the practical details while she struggled with her professional crisis. And the approval-seeking little girl in her – the one she was trying hard to squash – was glad that he still liked her.  
  
After taking a quick head-count, Neela guided her family into the Admit area and pointed out people as if they were tourist attractions, narrating, "This is Jerry. He makes this whole place work, and he's very large. That's Frank. He works with Jerry and recently had a massive heart attack and shouldn't be eating that donut . . ."  
  
Incongruously, Frank smiled like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. As the group proceeded past the translucent board, Neela continued, "Here is Dr. Romano. He's the director of the Department. You'll meet him at dinner tomorrow, at which time he's promised not to embarrass me too much."  
  
Neela's voice rose in a slightly pleading tone at the end of the last sentence. Her mentor's evil grin was not reassuring. But before she could dwell on this, another "attraction" presented itself:  
  
"And this is a naked patient. Now if you'll come this way . . ."  
  
-OOOOO-  
  
After the ceremony . . .  
  
Neela sat pensively on the bench of her favorite "sulking place" near the hospital wall. She knew that her family was waiting to take her to dinner to celebrate her accomplishment, but she needed a few minutes to herself first.  
  
'It's over. I'm officially a doctor. Bloody marvelous.'  
  
It was hard to believe that, yesterday, her greatest worry was how to break the news to her parents that she'd withdrawn from the residency match. Now, this concern was dwarfed by a much more important worry.  
  
Suddenly, she wasn't alone. Dr. Romano ducked around the wall, irritatingly buoyant, and exclaimed, "There you are! I've got a whole tribe of hungry Injuns looking for you . . ."  
  
He smirked at her pained expression. Then he studied her more closely and his smirk faded. "What's wrong? Dad disown you?"  
  
"No," she responded, "I haven't told them yet."  
  
He cocked his head inquisitively at her.  
  
She blurted out, "Michael's been called up for service in Iraq. He's due in Texas in two weeks."  
  
Michael had received the notice yesterday, but, in typically "gallant" fashion, wanted to let her enjoy her graduation day before telling her. Then her family started hinting that they might change their flight home, lengthening their visit, so she had to know. He showed her the letter right after the ceremony.  
  
Neela thought she saw sadness tugging at the corners of Dr. Romano's mouth for a moment. Then he looked at her sideways with a glimmer of mischief and said, "And you're all broken up about this on account of he's such a nice guy . . . ?"  
  
She smiled a little and admitted, "We've been seeing each other for a couple of months now. I know the administration doesn't approve of residents having relationships with med students, but we were very careful to make sure that he was never directly supervising me – a lot of the time I was on my pediatric surgery rotation anyway."  
  
Romano's expression was unreadable. She fretted, "I know we should have informed . . ."  
  
Cutting her off, he broke into a grin and chuckled, "A discreet relationship. At County! I don't think anyone's ever done that before."  
  
Neela smiled, glad that he wasn't angry.  
  
He went on, taunting, "No 'snogging' in the exam rooms? . . . No snit fits, hurling supplies at him when he looks at another woman? . . . No quickies in the handicapped restroom?"  
  
Blushing furiously, Neela stammered, "Of course not."  
  
"Well, that's gotta be a first," he laughed.  
  
Seeing how thoroughly he was enjoying her embarrassment, she said, "I take it back. I'm not sorry I didn't inform you sooner."  
  
"Heh. Yeah, I could've tormented the two of you for weeks."  
  
This remark brought home how little time she and Michael had left together, and how much she feared for his future. Romano must have read this on her face, because he went on, still teasing but more kindly: "I'm not sure, but I think the casualty rate in Iraq is actually a bit lower than at County."  
  
As they walked back into the hospital, she shook her head ruefully, smiling at his weird attempt to comfort her. In companionable silence, they walked toward the area where her family was waiting.  
  
Michael appeared in the hallway ahead of them, probably looking for her. He seemed a little harried. She'd introduced him to her family as her boyfriend, then left him to fend for himself with them. Oh dear. She felt guilty about that, but then he noticed her and his face lit up with a perfect smile; she forgot all her cares and found herself beaming back at him.  
  
The spell was broken by Dr. Romano's voice from beside her, calling out, "Hey, G.I. Joe – I promise to torture Pratt if he hits on her."  
  
Tearing his gaze away from Neela, Gallant grinned and obligingly offered the straight line, "Uh, so, what'll you do if he doesn't hit on her?"  
  
"Torture Pratt."  
  
Neela in the middle, the three doctors proceeded in the direction of the cacophony of voices that heralded Neela's extended family.  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
Author's notes: Thanks for continuing to review, even though my updating speed is slow as molasses! Yes, tv-crazy, in chapter 13 the reason I had Robert say "Mum" was for Ella's sake. Sorry you found it distracting, kimbari. I'm a yank, so I'm sure I do muck up british-isms sometimes!  
  
Obviously, in this chapter, I'm playing around with the order of events as they happened on the show. But I think my changes make sense. My theory is that the army would not have called Gallant to active duty so conveniently after the Demerol fiasco, unless he requested it and they were planning on calling him up soon anyway – like at the end of his internship. Furthermore, I think that if Neela had Romano mentoring her, albeit imperfectly, not only would the Demerol fiasco never have happened (can you imagine Romano telling a medical student that she's a doctor for a day? Ha!), but she might also have been a little more proactive in dealing with her residency qualms. 


End file.
